


To Want, and To Be Wanted

by achtungyall



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Canon Compliant, Future Fic, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Minor Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23894164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achtungyall/pseuds/achtungyall
Summary: Mizuki returns to St. Rudolph Academy as a science teacher and tennis coach. In his absence, he finds the school has fallen into disrepair and obscurity, complete with drab buildings and a shrinking student body.Luckily, a sizable grant for schools with tennis clubs in the Tokyo area is announced by a famous corporation Mizuki finds himself familiar with…
Relationships: Atobe Keigo/Mizuki Hajime
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

It had been almost ten years since he last visited St. Rudolph Academy, and it looked exactly the same.

Mizuki Hajime was turning 24-years-old this year, and in the next month of April, was starting his career as a science teacher. Poring over the listings for opening positions the next school year, he had found St. Rudolph’s post deep into the older web pages. After a nostalgic throb of his heart, he had applied on a quick whim, and he got a phone call the next day. He could have made a better salary at other private schools, but his heart accepted the position before his head could. He spent the week after pacing his 1K apartment, hands in his hair, shouting at himself for settling, for being so soft-hearted. But the moment he stepped on the familiar campus for his tour, he knew he made the right decision.

The headmaster, Watanabe, wasn’t anyone he knew from when he attended St. Rudolph. He was a short, slightly chubby, older man who was starting to bald. He wore a brown sweater vest when Mizuki came for his interview, and he wore a gray one when he led his tour of the grounds. Mizuki noticed he also wore a cross lapel pin over the pocket of his vest, and wondered if he was a believer.

Watanabe spoke in a soft voice, a tone that told Mizuki that perhaps he hadn’t ever been in a position of authority. He crossed his hands behind his back, his posture slightly slouched forward as he pointed out features of the school. Often, Mizuki found himself finishing Watanabe’s sentences in his head, remembering from the time his whole _life_ was St. Rudolph. 

Maybe the school grounds didn’t look _exactly_ the same — Mizuki first noticed chips and cracks in the paint outside. Then scuffs and discoloration in the hallways. Classrooms they viewed irritated his dust allergies. He only rarely visited the staff room as a student, but he was pretty sure the tea kettle, fridge, and microwave were the same ones from back then, too.

He didn’t want to think about the dorm rooms. Ten years of teenage grime made him shudder.

As the headmaster showed him around campus, he thought back on his days at the school. As they stood in the church, he remembered singing in choir each Sunday, and the extravagant Christmas celebrations every December. How he would… _encourage_ his tennis club to join him for their own carol performance, and how Kaneda was the only one to show any enthusiasm. He wondered what they were up to as Watanabe told him things about the dormitory that he already knew from his time as an RA. 

“And here is your classroom,” Watanabe said as he slid the door open.

Mizuki stepped into the room, scrutinizing the yellowed walls, counting out the desks, and glancing at the science equipment stored in the back of the room. He narrowed his gaze at the microscope he remembered thinking gave him pinkeye.

“I have a question, Watanabe-san, if you don’t mind,” Mizuki said as he tapped his chin.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Does St. Rudolph Academy plan to have renovations any time soon?”

Watanabe bristled at that question, coughing into his hand. “W-well, we do take pride in our school… Our grounds are only 15 years old…”

“I understand, Watanabe-san. I have a lot of fond memories of my time at St. Rudolph — it’s a beautiful institution. It’s simply…” Mizuki trailed off as he looked around the classroom.

“Yes…?”

“It’s so… drab!” Mizuki gestured to the walls, the desks, everything. “St. Rudolph is a respected school in Tokyo… It needs some maintenance! Who has allowed it to fall into disrepair??”

“Well, Mizuki-san, there’s one reason for that…” Watanabe’s voice trembled. Mizuki looked over at him in suspicion.

“What is that?”

“St. Rudolph is… struggling. We don’t have the money to be fixing things up...”

 _Ah._ Mizuki slumped against an experiment table, tracing a scrape in the tabletop with a finger. “Is that so.”

“Yes, Mizuki-san. I was only hired late last year, as you know, so I do not know yet how deeply our school’s financial troubles go…” Watanabe sighed, adjusting his glasses. “But our new enrollments decrease in number every year. We are working on promoting the school first, using scholarships and visiting elementary schools, before we invest in improvements.”

Mizuki twirled a lock of hair in his finger, wanting to argue that that approach seemed backwards, but instead mumbled out with a frown, “I see.”

Was St. Rudolph _not_ a respected school these days…? It almost felt like a stab to the back! Thinking of the time, blood, sweat, tears, he sunk into St. Rudolph as a teenager… It caused his head to swim, and to curse his nostalgic heart for taking on this position in the first place.

He was proud of his time at St. Rudolph, and owed his formative years to his activities there. It had been his first time on his own, when he moved from Yamagata to Tokyo to attend St. Rudolph, and being able to discover himself in the quaint Christian academy in the heart of the big city was absolutely precious to him. His pride could not swallow the fact that, ten years later, St. Rudolph was a dirty, unattractive school who couldn’t even afford to paint their own walls.

What started as small silence grew longer and thick with awkwardness as Mizuki’s head ran with thoughts. Watanabe eventually bowed, hands folded in front of his middle. “I am sorry you must join us in such circumstances, Mizuki-san.”

What Watanabe did not realize was that such circumstances were deemed unacceptable to Mizuki, who simply smiled and bobbed his head with a renewed sense of purpose. He had to do something, anything, to make St. Rudolph glamorous again. He couldn’t bear the thought of having a stain on his past. On his future.

It felt as if the universe gently placed a present in Mizuki’s lap. The uncertainty he felt after graduation, on taking this position, dissipated completely in his stomach, and Mizuki felt like God (if there was a god and Mizuki, right now, felt like there was) was calling out to him with a mission.

Mizuki did not like stains. He would not tolerate it.

As long as he was going to work here, he would spend every waking moment making St. Rudolph the most attractive school in Tokyo.

“Do not be sorry.” Mizuki looked around the room, his mind already racing with images and ideas for his classroom, theories of success calculating in his mind. “We can return St. Rudolph to its former glory.”

“E-Excuse me, Mizuki-san?” Watanabe fiddled with his glasses, confused by the sudden mood change of the room.

“Nfu, nothing to fret about. Let’s continue the tour, yes?” Mizuki looked to the headmaster with a sparkle to his eye. “Does St. Rudolph still have its tennis club?”

~~~

Mizuki learns that, yes, St. Rudolph still has a tennis club!

For this year.

Watanabe, in his nervous way, explained to Mizuki in fragmented phrases that the academy was considering cutting many programs due to lack of funding. While the club proved to be a formidable foe in the Kanto area in the years following Mizuki’s departure, recently it had a dry spell of new club members. Mizuki learns, last year, they only had four players total, and the club mostly just played by themselves after school, and otherwise did not compete or engage with other tennis clubs. It made Mizuki feel a little queasy.

Mizuki introduced himself to the four members at the start of the school year as their new coach supervising their club. (Which proved to be easy — the previous teacher almost sobbed with appreciation to be lifted of the responsibility.) The self-proclaimed captain, named Souhei, was a spunky young man who expressed an obvious love for tennis and the art of the game. Sensing he never had an opportunity before, Mizuki engaged with the teen who jabbered on about the players and their play styles and skills with glee. Tatsuya was a lefthander with a strong serve, Yuji was very analytical and recorded all of his games on his phone, Masaki liked to play tennis but didn’t have any extraordinary skills besides having a lot of stamina. Mizuki was immediately fond of the four comrades who showed him around their courts and their clubhouse. (The clubhouse was very messy and dingy, but in his older age, Mizuki had come to accept that most teenage boys were messy. The smell was unacceptable, though, and he mentally made a note to buy them air fresheners.)

“Do you know of the tennis club’s history?” Mizuki asked the group with fake earnesty as they got ready.

“Uhhhh.” Souhei rubbed his chin, then shrugged at his clubmates.

“ _I_ was a part of this tennis club!” Mizuki put a hand to his chest in a flourish, as if he revealed the answer to a grand prize contest and the four boys were the winners. “I was the manager and a singles player!”

Instead, Souhei said a polite ‘cool!’ and gathered his things with the other boys to start their day in the club. Mizuki felt his soul crumble a little, but reminded himself it may take a while before his new pupils understood the invaluable experience he had to offer to the club as a whole, and followed them to the courts.

Adding insult to injury, the courts and equipment were in bad shape. One court was… _fine_ , but the other one’s ground had patches of exposed concrete, making it unsafe to play. Nets drooped, no matter how tight Mizuki tried to secure them. They only had about ten tennis balls between them, which made practice cumbersome as they spent more time gathering the same balls over and over. And while most members supplied their own rackets, Mizuki thought it was time for an upgrade for most of them, but it wasn’t fair to ask or say so. No wonder there was an air of _blase_ in the club.

As Mizuki watched them run through their practice drills for the day, he remembered Watanabe’s watery voice speculating about the clubs the school would close. While Watanabe reiterated nothing was decided yet, Mizuki knew, from having grown up playing sports, that the clubs that didn’t have any distinguished titles, and low club members were often the first to be gently swept under the rug. 

He wondered, watching the boys volley back and forth, how to best get more players. While straightforward recruitment worked like a charm, that was when he was a peer, and he knew that as an adult man it would be quite weird and unwelcome if he urged middle school boys to come to St. Rudolph.

He wasn’t even sure how to approach the conditions of the courts and the equipment. Mizuki sighed out as the weight of what he was involving himself in suddenly dropped upon his shoulders.

This was going to take a lot of work. He closed his eyes and thought of potential plans.

~~~

The matter of new club members was something within reach, so Mizuki’s first plan of attack, and the one he thought had the most potential, was to promote the club heavily at the start of the year. One afternoon, instead of doing actual practice, he and the four boys worked on posters highlighting the tennis club. However, with a shrinking student body with slow enrollments, it proved difficult to gain club members, even at the start of the year. They did gain one member, and that brought some glee to Mizuki. Sure, that club member happened to be Souhei’s younger brother, Shohei, who enrolled as a freshman that year, but it was _something._ One was still better than zero.

His next plan was the usual club fair. Meant to hook in any students still on the fence, the competition proved fierce as _all_ clubs were desperate for new members to prevent themselves from getting the axe. Mizuki organized drinks and snacks, neatly arranging them on the front of the table to lure more people, but they did little good.

Souhei was naturally an excitable boy, so Mizuki encouraged his tendencies to be friendly and talkative, pointing out first years who quietly looked at the club booths one by one. Mizuki would chew on his inner cheek as he watched from afar, arms tightly crossed, wishing _he_ could say something… anything!!

Mizuki realized he had a control problem.

Souhei came back with smiles and would chirp that they said they would ‘think about it!’ but that the student ‘never really played tennis before!’ Mizuki would ask with a strained voice how Souhei would respond, and, bless his heart, Souhei replied, “I say, okay, have fun looking at clubs!”

“Souhei-san,” Mizuki grabbed his own chin tightly as he spoke carefully, “please tell them… we can teach them. That they don’t need experience... And talk to _everyone_. Please.”

Souhei looked at him with big eyes and nodded.

The day passed, every minute feeling like an hour as Mizuki dutifully stood behind the booth, forcing himself not to push his nose into what should be the work of the students. Souhei did his part, approaching anyone who came by rather than only people who glanced over at them. And perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was Souhei’s newly pushy nature, but by the end of the festival, they got another freshman for a club member: a rather shy and small boy named Yoshiyuki. After the festival, Mizuki let out a hard, loud, but relieved sigh. Six members, he could work with. Four was simply not enough under any circumstances.

Mizuki had spent his nights afterwards planning a regimen for practice with all six members, but on the first day with everyone, he remembered: _oh, there was only one tennis court._ He watched as the boys conferred with each other, then split off into two groups: four actually practiced tennis on each end of the good court, and two stood to the side doing a sorry excuse of practice.

Mizuki drifted over to the other court. The top was faded, the net poles rusty from neglect. He quietly tapped his notebook with his pen as he stared down at the ground, the holes peppering each side and every corner. Circling around each hole, he made a tick on a new line in his paper. As he finished surveying the holes, he looked to his count. _Seventeen._ Seventeen holes, seventeen tripping hazards, seventeen reasons to have less practice. Where the hell did these holes come from anyway?? With a shake of his head, he turned and joined the two boys at the other court, giving them pointers, and advising the group when to switch.

At the end of day, Mizuki gave them all a clap.

“Good work, everyone,” he said with a smile, though he quickly frowned, looking at the four original members. “Though it is unfortunate we could not follow most of the practices I wrote out… Has it always been like this?”

Souhei nodded meekly, then raised his fist. “Yeah! We’ve been using just one court since we joined the club, but we make it work!”

“I admire your grateful attitude, but it’s no good,” Mizuki sighed with a shake of his head. “You cannot become the best versions of yourselves with…”

He trailed off and gestured to the other court. The boys fell silent and stared at him in group confusion. Mizuki pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering how to best express this.

“If you, as a team, want to improve, it’d be so much easier if the grounds and equipment were in better condition. Our progress is hindered otherwise, if we all can’t do the same practices. It’s none of your faults. I hope you all know.” He crossed his arms, tapping the crook of his elbow with a single finger. He felt guilty for saying it, not wanting to dampen their spirits, but it wasn’t something he could twist positively. 

The team of six turned to look at the courts, and mused amongst themselves. Mizuki chewed on his lip, wondering if he just sent this club down the tubes with his grim outlook. Maybe this really was all for naught. Maybe he should stick to teaching science and nothing more.

“We know, Coach Mizuki!” Souhei chirped, breaking through Mizuki’s cloudy mind with his eternal optimism. He blinked down at them, met with six smiles. “We can make it to Nationals with just one court! Right guys?!”

The teammates agreed cheerfully, and Mizuki paused, then smiled weakly at the sight, but turned to privately shake his head.

The pressure to improve the club just got a _lot_ heavier.

~~~

After spending hours of his evening researching, drinking only lukewarm tea for his dinner, Mizuki came to the conclusion fixing the court was not feasible. Buying new equipment for his hardy pupils was not feasible. If he had only kindness in his heart, Mizuki would spend every yen of his paycheck personally fixing the courts, buying all the rackets, grip tape, sneakers, and tennis balls six boys could need. But he was vain and he was selfish, and it was not money he was willing to spend, not that he had much to spend anyway. It would take perhaps _years_ to fix the court, if he took it into his own hands. And if the school administration had cared, they would have fixed it already themselves. He quietly ordered a bulk pack of forty tennis balls, and sighed as he clicked away from the page.

The white space of the Google front page strained his eyes as his mind raced for some idea, even just one idea, but the hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed his thoughts. Goodbye tennis club! Goodbye St. Rudolph! It was nice teaching there for one year, but even Mizuki could not scheme up a plan to get what he wanted. 

He slumped against his desk, moaning out as he clutched his hair. He just needed _money_! He had the team, he had the positive can-do energy, they just needed the tools for success…

Money… Mizuki lifted his head, eyes squeezed shut, cogs turning. He remembered speaking with Watanabe, and he remembered…

 _Scholarships_! Mizuki banged his fist down as his eyes shot open. Grants! Fundraisers! He had a good sob story! He just needed to put it out there!

His fingers flew across the keyboard as he started his search. 

As if it were destiny, there was a news article heading at the top of the page, from a mere two days ago: ‘10 Million Yen Grant Contest Announced By Atobe Corp. For Schools, Tennis Programs.’

Of the heading, Mizuki was first struck by the staggering amount of money, and then by the name. Atobe…? He had to search his mind for only a moment before he remembered, but how could someone truly forget Atobe once they had the… ‘privilege’ to meet him?

The last time he had seen Atobe was the end of his time at U-17 camp, though there wasn’t any sort of formal goodbye, not to him or to anybody, except Yuta maybe. It had been about a year there before he had decided to return to a normal life on his own. At that point, he focused on his studies, as one thing he had learned from the camp was that, for himself, tennis hadn’t been worth pursuing professionally.

He opened a tab, and out of morbid curiosity, typed ‘Atobe Keigo’ into the search, running on such a high he could take a moment to divert from his mission. After scoping out various websites and news articles (and, he regret to say, a gossip forum focused on Atobe), he learned Atobe had played tennis professionally up until two years ago, when his father’s retirement forced him to take control of the Atobe Corporation. He had a couple impressive Grand Slam titles under his belt, though not any from Wimbledon. Mizuki felt a smile tug at his lips seeing Atobe kiss one of his trophies in a news article, then forced his face into a sneer. He clicked back to the main search results page, scrolling down to a link reading, ‘Atobe Corp. Names Son as New CEO.’ The pictures from the press conference were an interesting contrast — where Atobe looked to be at the peak of pride and happiness with his trophy, his face was serious and somber introducing himself to the shareholders and media as the new man in charge of the famously profitable company. As if he was at his own funeral.

Mizuki rolled his eyes — as if becoming a rich CEO sitting in an office all day was some burden to bear.

He clicked back to the article about the grant, scooting forward in his chair and leaning in to absorb every detail he could. 

In the video attached to the article, he sees Atobe in motion for the first time since U-17. He paused to scrutinize him for a moment. Atobe still favored the hairstyle he discovered in his later years at the camp, which had been after Mizuki left — one side was permed with volume, and swooped outward from his chiseled face, the other side being combed back. Mizuki felt it was maybe a little out of style these days, but if Atobe felt good, then he wouldn’t have cared for Mizuki’s opinion. Regardless, Atobe looked as young as he did back then, except for a few fine lines under his eyes.

Mizuki clicked on the video to let it play, drumming his fingers on the desk as he listened to the presentation announcing the grant. Atobe was as charismatic as he was back in their school days — commanding the attention of the audience, physical and virtual, with boisterous words and the rise and fall of his voice. He didn’t have a smile as much as a smug smirk, as if he was bragging about being so generous. Mizuki wished there was something _else_ he could apply for so he didn’t have to look at such a gross face. He would take a look later, but this grant seemed too good to be true.

Atobe announced the grant to a polite round of applause, and detailed the conditions: schools must be in the Tokyo wards, have a tennis club, and at least 25% of the grant must be put towards the tennis club. 75% of the grant could be used for other school improvements, or for supporting students. Mizuki blinked, impressed with such lenient terms, but immediately stopped the video to scroll down for further information.

The official website for the grant, in its sleek modern design, laid out the rules for application simply: there would be five winners, and to apply, they required a 90 second video from a coach, teacher, or faculty member, plus the tennis club members, introducing themselves and describing what would be done with the grant. It was straightforward, but Mizuki’s mind was already reeling from the possibilities. 

He did a quick search for other grants, and while there were some options, none of them were as generous as Atobe’s, and there were too many that had already ended before the school year began. Glancing to the clock in the corner of his screen (1 AM, it read), he abruptly shut his laptop, snatched a notebook and pen, and hurried to his bathroom. Atobe’s grant was the only one worth pursuing. He was stuck with this one. He wanted to forego his nighttime skincare routine, his mind rushing with ideas, but the vain part of him won out. He sat on the edge of his bathtub as his cleansing mask foamed on his skin, hurriedly writing out his ideas.

This had to work. It _had_ to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10 million yen = approx. $93,000 USD.


	2. Chapter 2

At the next tennis practice, Mizuki showed the group of six the article explaining the grant. He watched their eyes widen, and look to him for explanation.

“Now, this is not to say we can’t succeed with just one court and five tennis balls,” Mizuki spoke slowly so he did not inadvertently say something discouraging, “but think of the success we could have if we had, say, two _new_ courts and… five hundred tennis balls!”

Thankfully, that worked to excite them, and instead of practicing, they went over what their video should say, huddled around a piece of paper Mizuki gave them.

“Speak your pride,” Mizuki told them as they hem-and-hawed. “We are St. Rudolph, and we deserve only the best, after all. No begging!”

After some convincing from the technology department head, Mizuki scuttled back to the club to set up the expensive camera for their video. After posing the six members together (three kneeling in front, the other three on chairs, Souhei in the front middle as captain), he stood at their side as they recorded. He introduced himself as the coach, then with a swerve of his arm, gestured to the team, who followed in introducing themselves. After giving their names, they each quickly also mentioned their favorite things about tennis. Souhei then took the lead as the captain.

“What we plan to do with the grant,” Souhei started, then brought up a determined fist, “is use it to help us become the best versions of ourselves that we can be! We are focused athletes, and determined students! We have the attitude, we just need the resources to help our talents bloom!”

Okay, maybe Mizuki helped with that last line.

They all bowed their heads forward, saying ‘Thank you for your consideration!’ together. Mizuki allowed a moment before hopping over to the camera to stop the recording. Watching it on the little screen, he found it to be exactly what he wanted.

“One minute and twenty-two seconds! Perfect.” He looked to the boys, excitement radiating from their smiles. “Practice if you’d like. I’m going to return this camera and work on the video. Good day.”

He smiled at the group as they bid him goodbye, watching them rush off to their single tennis court. The light was orange as the sun started to set, and Mizuki went back into the main school building. After ripping the video to his computer, he got up to return the camera.

“Oh, Mizuki-san,” Watanabe’s voice called out to him in the halls, and he heard him shuffle over in somewhat of a hurry.

Mizuki blinked and turned to offer a polite smile. “Watanabe-san.” He bowed his head. “Thank you for your hard work today.

Watanabe gave a slight bow. “Thank you for your hard work. What were you needing the camera for? Kagawa-san is always concerned when the sports clubs take the cameras.”

Watanabe, who was often more soft, had a piercing look to his eye as he studied Mizuki. Tightening his hold on the equipment, he quickly understood, from being a similar type himself, that Watanabe did not like being left in the dark on things.

“Nfu, just a personal project.” Mizuki kept an airy tone as he spoke. “I am already finished with it.”

Watanabe grunted with understanding, but he kept his gaze and did not make his leave or say anything more. Mizuki smiled, twirling some hair with a finger, familiar with the tactic, but not intimidated by the headmaster by any means to say anything else.

“I’ll be returning this now. See you tomorrow.” He bowed, and turned to continue on his way. He felt the daggers of distrust and suspicion dig into his back, but he straightened his posture and shrugged them off. This was something he would be asking forgiveness for, not permission. Mizuki liked rules and structure, but only when it suited him, and the bureaucracy of St. Rudolph’s school administration was _not_ something that suited him.

Mizuki took care to make multiple copies of the video, burying them in multiple folders on his Macbook, and took equal care to carry it on the train home. Only after reviewing, making some small edits, and submitting the application on the grant’s website did he feel free of the weight of Watanabe’s suspicion on his shoulders.

~~~

It was a rainy Saturday afternoon, perhaps two weeks later, when Mizuki’s phone rang. Due to his weekly clean up, he had almost missed the phone call due to the loudness of his vacuum. Thankfully, he had noticed his phone light up as it buzzed across his desk, turning the vacuum off, and with a wipe of his brow, answered.

“Hello, Mizuki speaking.”

“This is Atobe.” Mizuki widened his eyes in recognition of the voice. He gripped his phone tighter, pulling it away from his ear to stare at the caller ID, then put it back to hear the end of a sentence, “—your video.”

“Excuse me, repeat that.”

Atobe gave a huff from the other line — Mizuki’s eyebrow twitched from the rudeness. “I’m calling about your video.”

“Yes, for your grant,” he said then paused before sitting down at his desk. “Correct?”

“Correct. It was a passable video.”

Mizuki was the one to huff this time, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach. Attempting to mask his irritation by making his voice higher, the exasperation dripped from it anyway. “So, are you calling just because you recognized me?”

“Ahn? I don’t know you.” Atobe sounded annoyed. “Did you work for my company before?”

“No. But you should know me.” Mizuki twirled some hair on a finger, determined to get Atobe to remember. “Think middle school.” 

Atobe paused, then asked, “Hyotei’s tennis club? I knew every club member’s name, but that’s unimportant to me now. So you’d have to remind me.”

“No, no, I never attended Hyotei, but we did play tennis together.”

“Then what is it?” Atobe’s irritation grew with each word.

Mizuki sighed, and mused in a disappointed tone, not unlike a teacher with a student who forgot their homework, “Never mind then, we used to be a rival school in the Tokyo area, that’s all. Why are you calling?”

“I told you, the video. It was passable. We—”

“You know, Atobe-san, if someone fails at a contest, they usually just send an email or nothing at all!” Mizuki scoffed. “Is that it?”

Atobe paused, and then laughed in bewildered amusement, “You think passable means failed? It means it _passed_! Do you think I would waste my time calling everyone telling them they didn’t make it? I’m a busy man!”

Mizuki felt his shoulders relax, having not realized he was so tense, but blushed from feeling rather foolish. “Passed…?” He asked, “What exactly does that mean for this contest?”

“We are holding a dinner for the successful candidates. The five winners will be announced there. You are eligible to come.” Mizuki heard him tapping his fingers on the table, finding it rude but not saying so. “The dinner is April 25th. Tell me if you are able to come. If you cannot, I will disqualify your submission.”

Mizuki looked at his schedule book. A Saturday evening. He would have to do his cleaning chores on Friday or Sunday. “I am able.”

“Then we will email you further details.”

“Thank you.” Mizuki blinked — he was closer to winning the 10 million yen for St. Rudolph, and depending on the number of successful candidates, that chance may be higher than he realized. He took a breath, wanting to yelp with glee, but waited for the call to end, as it was the least embarrassing/polite thing to do. After a beat, there was still a lack of sound, and after checking his phone, he was surprised to see the call still connected. It had to have been a minute. “Shall I hang up…?”

“Were you playing for Seigaku?” Atobe asked suddenly. Mizuki blinked, then laughed.

“Wow, is this truly bothering you?”

“Tch, forget it. It’s in the past.”

Mizuki placed a hand to his chest, deciding to be kind and put Atobe out of his misery. “I will say I am an alumni of St. Rudolph, the school I applied for. We—”

He heard a beep that signaled the end of the call. With a roll of his eyes, he settled back in his chair to let the reality of the situation sink in. The glee bubbled back up in his chest, and he pumped his fist gently in the air, hissing out a quiet ‘yes!’ 

This could work! This could _really_ work. 

Despite his happiness to make it to the next step, he felt resentful of being forgotten. How could Atobe forget him? Even St. Rudolph didn’t ring any bells! Sure, they weren’t the best of friends, and yes they only technically played against each other _once_ (though it was fine if Atobe forgot that), but they did spend time together at the U-17 camp in particular. They had tea together! They had baths! How could he forget the very nice baths? As a daily routine, Atobe would toss his fancy bath salts and bath garnishments into whatever open and clean bath there was, and settle in each morning. Most of the boys there would scoff at the additions and keep to themselves, or be rejected entirely from joining. (Atobe was not shy about saying the other boys did not understand the benefits of such products, and thus did not deserve to use them for that reason.) Mizuki was accepted to sit in the soothing bathwater with only a slight wave of the hand — perhaps because Mizuki was the only one that brewed the higher end teas each morning for breakfast, and Atobe was forced to take from his servings.

...Why was Atobe calling him anyway? Wasn’t this something a secretary should have been handling? Perhaps the poor woman was too busy doing everything else for him!

No matter. He had a dinner party to start preparing for.

~~~

It was an unfortunate slip in judgment that brought Mizuki before Watanabe a week later. This was something he was only mildly prepared for.

It was natural for the boys to be curious about the fate of their video, and Mizuki had attempted to keep it vague. Yes, he submitted it, and yes, _technically_ , he didn’t know any results yet. There was still a chance it could be a no, after all! A failure is a failure, no matter how far along in the process. So he kept it an unimportant topic, but he could have tried all he wanted, the boys still speculated and wondered. They all had their own ideas of what to do with the money: not just two fixed up courts, but four! How about a tennis ball shooting machine? Or an indoor court to practice on cold or rainy days? Shohei even thought they should get a training center, full of treadmills, weights, or other machines. Just because.

Mizuki liked hearing the ideas, even if some were too outrageous or too silly, so he did not warn them to keep it down, or to only keep it within the club. He had been between periods preparing for his next class when Watanabe stuck his head in.

“Mizuki-san,” his usually wobbly voice was now firm as he spoke. “Please see me after the school day in my office. Thank you.”

Watanabe did not stick around, but he didn’t need to, as Mizuki understood immediately what had happened. A seed of stress planted in his stomach, but he remained focused on his classes, proud of his believed ability to keep a calm demeanor despite it all.

At the end of the day, he gathered his items, holding his folders and laptop to his chest, and headed into the staff room, where Watanabe’s office lurked in the back. He gave a polite nod to his co-workers before giving the office door a knock, letting himself in.

“Hello, Watanabe-san,” he cooed, setting his things down before gingerly taking a seat at the big desk. “How was your day?”

“Thank you for coming, Mizuki-san. Thanks for your hard work.” Watanabe bowed slightly forward before straightening up in a tense, strict posture, hands tightly clasped together. “Do you know why I asked you to come here?”

Mizuki resisted a frown, feeling like he was being treated as a student himself with that wording. “I suppose my tennis club members have been talking a bit too much.”

“M-Mizuki-san,” the headmaster’s voice started to take on its wobbly tone as Mizuki guessed correctly. “They keep talking about… about money. What is this about all this money you are supposedly getting…? Where… where is it coming from?”

Mizuki stared at him, then laughed. “Where do you _think_ it’s coming from, hm? I’d like to know your ideas.”

“Well…” Watanabe started, then cleared his throat, “W-well… I d-do not know, Mizuki-san, th-that’s why I’m concerned! They keep talking a-about how they could get new courts, new equipment… A teacher asked them how, and they said Mizuki-san was handling it. Y-You can see how worrisome that is!”

Mizuki sighed, shaking his head in amusement. “Dear oh dear. Yes, where _would_ I get that kind of money, nn?” 

Watanabe frowned at him with a mixture of worry and confusion. Mizuki waved his hand at him.

“I’m kidding. Look, here is the information.” On his break, he had printed out a copy of the grant’s website. He pushed the paper to Watanabe, who snatched it up. “It’s a grant. I have applied for it.”

“I-I see,” Watanabe said as his eyes moved back and forth to read, then sighed out. “Mizuki-san, it is required that applications on behalf of St. Rudolph be approved by the administration before submission, as we may want to add additional information to it…”

“Well, it is too late now, unfortunately. Deeply sorry.” Mizuki’s finger curled in a piece of hair, absolutely not sorry.

“And the funds… We have to ensure they’re actually coming to the school, yes?”

“Of course, Watanabe-san. I am sure the grant has its stipulations on how it will be paid out, so I will be sure to confer with you. If we do win.” He wanted to sigh at such boring, annoying, useless, redundant questions.

Watanabe murmured something unintelligible, and filed the paper away after writing Mizuki’s name at the top. Mizuki resisted a roll of his eyes, just smiling wider instead. “I see… Well, do let us know how it turns out.”

“Of course, Watanabe-san!” Mizuki stood up with sudden cheer, then bowed. “Thank you for your assistance and your hard work! Good day.”

Mizuki turned to leave and that’s when he allowed himself to roll his eyes. So pointless, so useless, such a waste of time! But it always felt good to be justified in a choice — who knows what sort of frivolous nonsense they’d want to include with the application? Something that would have made them fail, surely. 

He went home, a spring in his step having been relieved of the looming task of having to tell his school of his plans, not unlike a child who finally finished cleaning their room. Taking the position of a headmaster seemed alluring if only because he could mostly do what he wanted without much explanation or responsibility.

On the train ride home, his phone had vibrated in his pocket. He set his book in his bag as he pulled it out, blinking at the email titled ‘Grant Award Dinner Details - Atobe Corp.’ He took in a deep breath, opening it up.

Inside it detailed the venue location (an Atobe owned hotel ballroom — so surprising!), and the dress code (formal — also shocking!) It gave a brief outline of what the night would entail, then it signed off with ‘Atobe Keigo - CEO.’ Curiously, despite being a dinner, it did not give details on the food. Perhaps he thought too much of such a rich corporation that it would have information like that. 

Still, he wouldn’t want to wear white when the dinner was, say, pasta or something saucey. Not that he wasn’t tidy with his food, but any small risk was still too much risk when attending such a fancy dinner. He replied to the mail:

‘ _Hello,_

_Thank you for the information._

_When will details of the dining courses be announced?_

_Thank you,_  
Mizuki Hajime  
St. Rudolph Academy’

He pocketed his phone, already pondering the suit he would buy. If not white, perhaps a nice cool grey. Or would it be too bold to arrive in purple? It would certainly be memorable. If he didn’t win the grant, perhaps Atobe would take pity on him as someone from his past. 

He walked home with visions of what he would wear and how he would style himself. It was to his surprise once he got home that he had received a reply.

‘ _Undecided. Will follow up with course choices at a later date._

_Atobe Keigo - CEO_

_Sent from my iPhone_ ’

Mizuki narrowed his eyes suspiciously, firing off another email before he could consider if it was appropriate or not. He felt too incredulous to think of manners.

‘ _Is this really you, Atobe-san? Why are you managing these emails?_ ’

He was starting his dinner for that night when the mail app buzzed with a reply. His tea kettle whistled loudly as he stared down at it.

‘ _Only email with worthwhile questions._

_Atobe Keigo - CEO_

_Sent from my iPhone_ ’

He immediately pocketed his phone in annoyance. Well, it definitely was Atobe — what a rude man. Mizuki sat at his kotatsu with his food and cup of tea as he kept thinking of the dinner two weeks from now. He revisited his earlier idea in his mind. Getting on Atobe’s good side would be beneficial. Winning was preferable, of course, but if he reminded Atobe of their history, of how he was the only one who understood his bathing habits in the U-17 camp, perhaps Atobe could slip 5 million yen under the table for him, for an old friend.

Well, perhaps talking about baths you took as a teenager was a bit weird. And they weren’t really friends...

Regardless, it was a good idea — one he was intent on following. He finished his food, and got ready for bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Being late was something Mizuki did not do, and as such, he arrived at the hotel an hour and a half before the doors were slated to be opened. The dinner was at 6:30 PM, and so the ballroom would open at 5:30 PM. It was 4 PM as Mizuki sat in the lobby with a tea from the attached cafe, taking out his phone to pass the time. 

It had taken a couple trips to different shops in Shinjuku to decide on an outfit to his taste (and, unfortunately, within his budget) but he thought he was able to purchase something exquisite. His dinner jacket was made of a gently shimmering grey fabric, the lapels a more matte black. His trousers matched, of course, and cropped just above his ankle. His shirt underneath was an otherwise normal white formal shirt, collar and all, but featured a gentle ruffle design down the front in a V shape, disappearing where his jacket buttoned together. He finished it off with a white pocket square, deep black socks, and his newly shined pair of black Oxfords. 

He took extra care not to tip his tea any obtuse direction, and sipped gently. It was a unique flavor that was nostalgic to him, rolling the liquid on his tongue in curiosity. It had bothered him so much, he got up from his seat once his cup was empty, going to the front of the cafe as he returned it.

“Excuse me, what tea blend do you serve for your black tea?”

“Oh, did you enjoy it, sir? It’s our exclusive Atobe blend!” the server chirped. “The tea leaves are sourced directly from England and Germany!”

He blinked, recalling a memory from U-17 where Atobe boasted about having brought a custom blend of tea from home. He remembered telling Atobe it was quite nice, and being put off by getting ‘of course it is’ in reply. 

“Thank you,” he said curtly, then returned to the lobby.

Before he could move to his seat, he was intercepted by a hustle of caterers. The smells were delicious. Of the announced courses, he chose a pan roasted salmon with vegetables, with an appetizer of Hokkaido sourced scallops. For dessert, he wouldn’t admit to anyone, but he was pleased to see a chocolate tart with Yamagata sourced cherries. While he felt Tokyo suited his spirit more, one couldn’t forget where they grew up.

Watching the trays go by, he was startled to see Atobe bringing up the rear. He cleared his throat, and hurried to catch up with him. “Atobe! It’s me, Mizuki Hajime!”

Atobe turned to look at him, frowning as he stopped. “Ahn? What?”

_He’s tired_ , Mizuki thought as he looked at him. While he could tell Atobe was wearing makeup, he saw the slight puffiness of eyebags that could not be contained under concealer, and then the tinge of red to the white of his eyes. Mizuki realized he didn’t have anything to say that was worth interrupting him for. He faked a smile. “Looking forward to tonight.” He paused, then leaned in as he kept his sickly sweet smile, “Do you need any assistance?”

“No.” Atobe quickly turned back to follow the line of servicemen without another word. Watching him move, Mizuki noticed his suit was wrinkled as well. For giving away 50 million yen, Atobe looked off his game. But perhaps the judgmental thoughts were best kept to the back of his mind — didn’t he have some buttering up to do?

He followed after them, shuffling hurriedly after Atobe’s quick pace. “Surely there must be something! I mean, you _are_ just _now_ arriving here. The ceremony is in—”

Atobe turned his head with a snap. “I know, but I have it under control. Doors open in 20 minutes.” 

The doors shut in Mizuki’s face, and he twitched. But nothing to be done. Perhaps if someone had seen him help, it’d be reported as a conflict of interest anyway. He’d have to think of a different tactic. For now, he went back to the lobby and waited.

More potential winners slowly filled the room, Mizuki having put away his smartphone in favor of people watching. He recognized a fair share of them from his intel gathering, some of them coaches to strong teams from small schools, and a few were simply unknown to him. It was a sizable amount of candidates, and he calculated his chances. There were about fifteen people, as they all waited by the ballroom doors, so… a 33.33% chance. It made him hopeful.

The ballroom was grand in scale, but only five tables were placed before a temporary stage. Each table was intricately decorated — draped with a fine white tablecloth, there were three settings on each table. From being particular about tableware himself, Mizuki recognized the silverware, and china plates (white with intricate gold filigree designs) as being of the highest quality. Glass champagne flutes sat at 2 o’clock, and beside it at 1 o’clock, a chilled glass filled with ice water. A vase sat at the center of every table, three perfect red roses in each one. Mizuki took a deep breath. It was beautiful.

He found his nameplate and sat in his seat. He was on the right end of the third table, sat next to a Miyashita who said his school was in Itabashi. He made polite conversation with him and the woman on the left end, who was named Ishikawa, and coached at a school in Bunkyo ward.

Their glasses were filled with champagne as their selected appetizers were sat down. He nibbled on a scallop as he searched the room, and at no sign of Atobe, slowly glanced to a clock on the far wall. It was less than ten minutes before the ceremony’s start time. 

“Have you met Atobe-san before?” he asked the two, looking back at them.

“Atobe-san…” Ishikawa looked up curiously, a faint pinkness coming to her cheeks. “I knew of him before I applied, but I never met him... H-he was an amazing tennis player!”

“Oh yes,” Miyashita sighed wistfully, “he was one of the best in the game. I have his games recorded. I show them to my students to inspire them.”

“Ah, his final game at the US Open two years ago…” The woman clapped her hands together in a swoon, and the two chatted excitedly about the sport. Mizuki inhaled slowly, and exhaled it equally as slow in place of the sigh he wanted to do.

“It’s too bad,” Ishikawa murmured, “that he had to quit…”

He didn’t _have_ to. Mizuki couldn’t contain a roll of his eyes, but the two were too busy blabbing together about Atobe to notice. Why the pity? Atobe was successful in business and in tennis. The Atobe apologism was too much.

Speaking of the devil, he noticed someone slip into the room, which began playing airy classical music. Atobe had changed into a new, unwrinkled suit, a simple but classy black number. Makeup redone, hair tamed, Atobe cleaned up well. He was on the phone, his features sharp as he held a heated discussion with whoever was on the other line. Curious, very curious. 

He watched him end the call then disappear to the back of the stage. So much for the opportunity to butter him up. The music swelled as Atobe appeared center stage shortly after.

“Thank you for coming!” Atobe bellowed out. “And, of course, for applying.”

He clapped, and the group of fifteen clapped as well.

“Your entrees will be served shortly,” Atobe continued, hand on his hip, “but first, I want to toast to you all.”

He picked up his glass from a table onstage, and the group of fifteen picked up their glasses as well.

“Cheers to you all for applying. Cheers to the grant I put together. I will help your schools achieve their greatest potential. Of course, there can only be five winners, but I have chosen well.” He raised his glass. “Cheers!”

Mizuki raised his glass with the rest of them, but he was unimpressed with the smug toast. Atobe needed a speechwriter. He sipped the alcohol after cheering with his tablemates. Okay, he was impressed with the champagne. He had another sip as the entrees were set out in front of them.

Atobe stepped off the stage, and stopped at the first table up front. Mizuki straightened up in his seat, reminding himself he could find Atobe annoying all he liked, but he was the one with the money. With the potential to pity _him_ and slip some money under the table…

As he approached the table, he was all smiles compared to earlier. “Good evening. Glad you could come. You couldn’t win if you didn’t come, ahn?” Atobe laughed, the two at Mizuki’s side also laughing. Mizuki forced a chuckle. He toasted with them.

“Atobe-san,” Mizuki practically cooed, leaning forward. “This is a wonderful ballroom. I love the decorations.”

“Of course,” Atobe grinned as he spoke, “this is an Atobe hotel. I pick all the decorations.”

“You have a good eye for things.” He bat his eyelashes at him. “You always have, since I met you in middle school.”

Atobe gave him an odd look, his smile turning into a frown momentarily. He was distracted from replying as Ishikawa stammered her admiration for him. Mizuki supposed he said enough.

The salmon was fantastic, but he didn’t finish it all, chalking it up to nerves. He chatted with Miyashita and Ishikawa throughout the dinner, the two mostly gushing over Atobe who sat at his own table as a man, who looked more like a servant than an assistant, read papers to him as he ate. Atobe had opted for the filet mignon. 

He was indulging in the medley of chocolate and Yamagata cherries when Atobe took the stage again. Feeling suddenly sick, he set his fork down.

“I’m sure you enjoyed your meal, so I apologize for interrupting dessert.” Atobe smirked as the small audience chuckled. “But now, it is time to announce the five winners.”

Mizuki tuned out the rest of the audience, staring intensely at the man as he fanned five envelopes with a grin. He realized then Atobe was a complete control freak. Not that he could talk, he knew that much about himself. But the pieces were starting to fit together, although he didn’t have all of them yet. There was something _off_ , something _odd_ about it all. 

He was distracted by his suspicions that he missed the first two winners being announced. But, the third:

“...Mizuki Hajime, science teacher and tennis coach for St. Rudolph Academy. The fourth…”

His breath got lost in his throat, and he coughed in shock. He stared at the man as he continued on to the next two names without a care for his surprise. He almost didn’t notice Ishikawa and Miyashita clapping and smiling for their tablemate. 

“Congratulations to all five of our winners!” Atobe even clapped himself as the rest of the room did so. “Please come to the table up front to arrange the paperwork signing. There’s an open bar for another hour. Have a good evening.”

Mizuki raised from the table, giving a tiny wave to the two other coaches before he zoomed over to Atobe, who had gone back to the table with the other man. “I’m Mizuki Hajime!” he blurted, then bit his tongue to hold back asking ‘why me?’

Atobe raised a brow at him, then started gathering his things. “I know.” He turned to the man at his side. “Michael will arrange the appointment for you. Good evening.”

He watched Atobe in his state of disbelief as he quickly departed the dinner, then snapped his head over at Michael, who held a schedule book open.

“Where is he going?”

“Atobe-sama has a flight to catch.” Mizuki slowly nodded in understanding, turning his head to stare at the door he left out of. “Now, for your appointment…”

~~~

Atobe was indeed a very busy man, as Mizuki had spent perhaps almost fifteen minutes with Michael picking out a date that worked best. It was ten days after the dinner, and Mizuki had arrived on a late Tuesday evening to the main Atobe office. It was a large building in the heart of east Shinjuku, and the security guard outside had to verify his identity before he was let inside. The receptionist gave him a lanyard with an ID card labeled ‘VISITOR’ before she pointed him where to go.

The way to Atobe’s office was convoluted, but it made sense, considering he was the all important CEO. It was not accessible from the ground floor elevators. He had to ride up to the fifth floor, have his identity verified again before entering a room with one elevator shaft. Instead of buttons to go up or down, it had a camera and microphone. It would be intimidating if he was easily intimidated.

Mizuki buzzed the speaker outside the office elevator as he was instructed, speaking through it, “It’s Mizuki Hajime. I am here for the grant paperwork.”

“Wait,” Atobe told him quickly through the buzzer. “I’ll let you up in a minute.”

Mizuki startled at that, frowning at the rudeness, but knew he had no choice. He crossed his arms and started to tap his foot in a mixture of impatience and nerves. Finally, the elevator doors made a chime, and opened for him. The insides were a sleek black marble with flecks of gold. Mizuki nodded in approval, and stepped inside, and immediately frowned in disapproval of the German opera soundtrack playing on his way up.

He stepped out, taking a moment to look out the window overlooking Tokyo at night — thousands of glittering lights from buildings, but none in the sky. Looking back ahead, he had one more set of doors to step through, hearing them unlock as he approached.

Atobe’s office is big, and yet not as big as Mizuki imagined. Of course, in the center in the back of the room is Atobe at his desk, a large and wide piece of furniture made of dark brown, almost black, hardwood. It matched the other furniture, mainly shelves filled with books, various files, and some photos. Atop his desk, Atobe had a computer set up with double monitors, multiple file trays and holders, a standard phone, and multiple cell phones lined up neatly in front of it. It was well organized, but the amount of stuff felt chaotic.

Then there was Atobe himself. His suit was a deep maroon, the dark gray dress shirt underneath was unbuttoned to show his collarbone. His golden hair was less styled than usual, his eyes (staring hard at a computer monitor) looked tired, his mouth turned down in a frown. When he finally looked up, Atobe flipped it to a smirk and turned in his chair towards him.

“Come sit.”

Mizuki settled down into the chair at the desk across from Atobe, his shoes squeaking slightly against the polished wood flooring, leaning forward in it with his own smile. “Thank you for having me.”

“Mm. Well.” Atobe turned, looking puzzled in a pause before grabbing a few papers out of a tray, setting them in front of Mizuki, “Here is the paperwork. Read.”

Atobe swiftly returned to frowning at his computer, Mizuki eyeing him oddly. But Atobe did not seem to have a care for any further pleasantries as he started typing away at something or other.

“You know,” Mizuki said as he started reading the legalese, “most companies would read this with, or for, the individual.”

“Atobe Corporation is not most companies,” Atobe said plainly as he kept typing. “I don’t need to hold your hand.”

Mizuki tutted, and supposed that was true, but only privately to himself. 

There was standard legal information about the grant, outlining what he could or could not do with the money, as was said upfront. Other standard stuff. He paused, and read one section over again to be sure he understood.

Under ‘Other Conditions Related to the Grant’, it stated:

‘ _It will be required that school statistics such as student body numbers, including new enrollment, and the previous year’s competitive records relating to the tennis club, if any, be submitted to Atobe Corporation for review in November, and at the start of the following school year._ ’

“Atobe-san.” Mizuki looked up at the man who glanced his way briefly before looking back at his computer. “I have a question.”

“Fine,” Atobe said curtly, turning in his chair and looking down at the paper with a bored look. “Which part?”

“This,” Mizuki pointed. “This section. Can you clarify?”

“It’s as it says.” Atobe let out a breath before explaining, “By November, I will ask for a preliminary report. By next April, I’ll require a final report of your new students and how your tennis club performed competitively. I want to measure the effects for future grants.”

“I… see.” Mizuki frowned, pulling the paper back. That was some unexpected pressure. “Are there any expectations or metrics we should strive for?”

“No.” Atobe turned back to his computer. “No metrics. No stipulations. Just for research.”

Mizuki gave a nod of understanding, and relaxed, reading the rest of the document. It was standard legal language and rules, but he took the opportunity to speak to the man, so far too unattainable. “Personal question. Why did you decide to offer this grant? You didn’t really say at the dinner.”

He heard the _taktaktak_ of the keyboard slow, then stop. Then Atobe’s grunt. “You mentioned playing tennis with me in middle school once. I am still a donor to Hyotei. But the competition for them has been… stale. They’ve won Nationals three years in a row now. They need a reason to stay on top of their games. They’re too comfortable.”

Looking up in surprise, he saw a smirk grow on Atobe’s face. Perhaps if this was a dramatic world in a movie, this would be a scene where Atobe revealed his villainous nature and evil plot. Mizuki would fear for his life, and there would be a scuffle out of the office to escape a grisly fate. But this was real life, and it was simply off putting to learn what seemed to be a charitable act, was only a means to inspire Hyotei to work hard, and not to rest on their laurels.

“Wow.” Mizuki stared at Atobe as he spoke slowly, “That’s very strange of you to do that. It’s a step below, perhaps, paying off a team to let Hyotei win, hm?”

Atobe shrugged. “It’s not the same thing at all. It’s charity. I like watching good tennis. Why not create a grant to help curate some healthy competition? Good things, ahn? If I had selfish reasons, so be it.”

Mizuki couldn’t argue with that, but he sighed as he signed off on the documents. “I suppose that’s fair.” 

He pushed the documents back towards Atobe, who was momentarily distracted with his computer again before grabbing them up. He signed his own name on the documents as well, putting them in a tray, and, once again, turned to his computer. His eyes had never left it.

“You can go.”

Mizuki got up and straightened out his dress shirt, but stood in place. He watched as the man typed away at one window, then switched to another and typed there. The stress was easy to spot in his furrowed brow, tired eyes, tight mouth. The question tugged at his lips, then spilled out, “Don’t you have a secretary? Or some staff? That should be handling this? Don’t you have more important business to attend to?”

“I am the only one who can handle these matters,” Atobe said plainly, as if bored. “If the grant is my idea, I want to be the one who handles it. You know the way out, ahn?”

Mizuki took the hint. “Fine, then. Thank you for having me.”

He bowed and turned to leave, uneased by his own pity for a smug, arrogant CEO. But, he reassured himself, it was pity more like watching someone make the same mistake over and over. Everyone was busy, and if Atobe didn’t know his limits, then that was his own fault. Nothing to be done, nothing to think hard about. He had to tell Watanabe the news.


	4. Chapter 4

For a short time, Mizuki was something of a celebrity at St. Rudolph. Watanabe changed his tune from suspicious and cold to warm and proud, acting as if he supported Mizuki’s endeavor the whole time. Mizuki saw right through it, but he let Watanabe live in his delusions. Things were easier if Watanabe thought he had a hand in it.

They had held an assembly announcing the win, and Mizuki gave a short speech discussing the plans for the money, making a note upfront that a portion was bookmarked to the tennis club.

“However,” he said as he looked out across the crowd of teenage faces, “we do want to hear your ideas on how we should use the rest of the funds. Please submit your suggestions to your homeroom teachers.”

Notes and papers of suggestions piled up. Watanabe let Mizuki help sort them and read them over for consideration, but Watanabe advised final choices would be decided by a group vote in the administration. Mizuki did not care much, as long as the tennis courts could be fixed.

Thankfully, the school was quick to bend to his requests for the tennis club, and Mizuki assumed it was due to him spearheading the application for the grant. He had filled out the requests for each stage of renovation, and found them approved the next day. It was a stark contrast to before, where he may have waited a week to have an experiment conducted outdoors to be approved.

First were the tennis courts. He spent a weekend overseeing contractors as they patched holes and repaved the surface, and replaced the nets and benches. It would take the following week to finish, but soon, he had the renovated tennis courts that he saw in his dreams. What made it much sweeter was the reactions of his six tennis players. Souhei ran up and down the courts yelping with glee, with Shohei behind him doing the same. Yuji and Yoshiyuki were more methodical, practicing moves on the courts to test their condition, Mizuki enjoying seeing the smiles grow on their faces. Tatsuya and Masaki got straight to playing a game. They all eventually came around to watch, cheering on in excitement.

Next, he got the permission to take them on a trip to the nearest sports center. With a flourish, he told the boys to purchase whatever new rackets, grip tape, shoes, they wanted. He watched them fuss over the selections, approving their eventual choices.

Oh, and he got renovations for the clubroom approved. Much more clean and neater! If only the boys could pick up after themselves a bit better...

With the weight of the deteriorated courts off his shoulders, Mizuki got to work on a practice regimen and his data gathering. He sent invitations to neighboring schools, and set up many practice matches. The grant could be thanked for that — once the winners were announced, St. Rudolph had become more well known amongst the Tokyo area tennis clubs. Notably, an invitation sent to Hyotei was declined.

The boys responded well to the new facilities and the more rigorous practice schedule. They took to his directions, and the practice matches proved successful in preparing them for the more formal competitions. The preliminaries went well — they easily won amongst their bracket and qualified for the Tokyo Prefecturals. They only got better with every match, and Mizuki grew excited from their swift progress.

He remembered when he was their age at St. Rudolph, when he would insert himself in his teammates’ business with ease, suggesting this tactic or that move. But he was older now, and the dynamic felt different. He gave his insight, but ultimately, his emotions had to be more detached. He felt more… anxious, than he ever felt as a manager, as a regular tennis player. The confidence, maybe to a delusional degree, was still there, but restrained.

~~~

It was a sticky May day shortly before Mizuki’s 24th birthday. With freshly laundered uniforms, and an application of suncream, he led his team to the site of the Tokyo Prefecturals.

The crowd of teens all in their uniforms and carrying their tennis bags brought waves of nostalgia to Mizuki. He had to remind himself he was here as a coach, and not as a manager that lived and breathed intel. He had teenagers to watch! They made their way to the sign in table, Mizuki giving his signature, and Souhei signed off on their team order. Souhei would be playing in Doubles 2, and Singles 1, due to their lack of players, but he seemed excited by the prospect and had practiced for it.

They went to their assigned court, where Mizuki told them some details about their upcoming match — which techniques to use and what techniques to expect. He drew little strategy diagrams for them, and felt fulfilled as they all leaned in and nodded along. They jogged off for practice, having about an hour to do so, and Mizuki settled himself on a bench, crossing his arms and placing one leg over a knee.

He felt so _restless._ Would it be too weird if he watched another set of teams…? It was acceptable when he was also a tennis player. He pouted to himself, then glanced to the side as something caught the corner of his eye. Startling, he straightened up seeing the sea of white and steel blue pass through the sidewalks, turning around on the bench to watch where they went off to.

After checking his watch, he hopped up, and hurried behind the crowd of Hyotei students. He realized they were simply club members, as he could see regulars courtside when he peered over their heads. Nervously, he checked the time again, then dashed off to find his own players.

“Let’s watch a game,” he told them in a hushed tone, as if doing something against the rules. They went along with him, hurrying back to the court as the game started.

Hyotei was as good as Atobe had bragged — they easily took the first match, six games all. Mizuki understood, maybe just a little bit, why he created his grant. Through the aggressive ‘Hyotei! Hyotei!’ cheers, he heard a side conversation from students. He glanced to his side as they spoke.

“Wasn’t Atobe-sensei supposed to come watch?”

“Yeaaahhh, but he’s _supposed_ to come to all our weekend practices, and he doesn’t do that, _sooo_...”

“Yeeeah, guess you’re right. We don’t need ‘im!”

They laughed together, Mizuki frowning in contention. He’d like to see Hyotei survive without the many donations they received from their alum. 

The time to head back approached around the start of Hyotei’s final Singles match, and Mizuki nudged his six team members along to their court for some final warm ups and practice. “Let’s get going,” he was saying when he stopped in his tracks.

Atobe was rushing up the sidewalk, talking into a cell phone again, Michael following behind him carrying a briefcase. As he approached, Mizuki heard that he was speaking German, but he hung up before he could hear much more.

“Atobe-san!” he called out as they passed, and Atobe even slowed a little. “Good luck.”

Atobe just raised a brow at him and kept hurrying by. Mizuki clicked his tongue, and hurried right past him as well.

He felt the desire to fret and repeat the same things he was always saying to his team as they prepared for their match: stay focused, remember what I told you, remember the strategies, pace yourself… He swallowed them back, and opted to give the six a smile as they looked to him.

“You know what to do.” He nodded to them, and Souhei and Yuji went out onto the court. 

Being a part of a team was so much different than just being a coach. It gave Mizuki some difficulty, but he realized it was truly out of his hands now. Mizuki took a seat on the bench, and watched closely.

~~~

The next summer months were a whirlwind, and looking back, Mizuki couldn’t tell anyone what happened outside of tennis.

They had succeeded at the Tokyo Prefecturals. Alongside them was Hyotei, naturally, and Mizuki counted them lucky they were in the different seed. His team went to peek at their games in their free time, and saw the talent and hardwork coming out of the club. Mizuki took the opportunity to run strategies against them, perhaps for later.

Things improved at St. Rudolph in other parts of the school. Weekends were spent painting and airing out the fumes, room by room, and Mizuki was able to wrangle an upgrade in science equipment. One week was spent looking at specimens under new microscopes, free of pinkeye. Mizuki enjoyed his job.

After school, he would spend hours training and practicing with the team, who were energized by their advancement to the Kanto Regional Tournament. They took his directions well, but perhaps there was too _much_ passion — he would dismiss them from practice at 5 PM, and head home. He would hear from the baseball coach, Ito, the next day that the group were still practicing at 6 PM, when they were forced to leave.

Not that his team from his own years didn’t care, but he was touched to see the amount of effort put forth by the boys. He supposed as he became an adult, he forgot how easily passionate teens could get. He idly made a note to treat them to yakiniku once this was all over.

The Kanto Regional Tournament was in mid-July, and Mizuki cooled himself with an uchiwa fan as they traveled to the grounds. His nagging changed from less tennis related, and more to health: drink water! Stay cool! Don’t overexert yourself! Thankfully, the boys listened and heeded his words.

He was looking down at his notebook when Tatsuya poked him and gestured for him to look at something.

It was Hyotei. Atobe-less again, but there they were, all eight regulars being trailed by other players and students. Mizuki narrowed his eyes at them. They were up against them in the first bracket. 

It was a familiar feeling, talking about Hyotei’s team and their strategies. He had to speak carefully, remembering clearly the advice he would have given in the past (not that it turned out to be useful…) and to say the right names.

He sat on the bench as the first singles match started, arms crossed tightly. He watched not just his team, but Hyotei as well, recognizing the strong play style in the players. They must have idolized Atobe there — maybe they had an altar or something. A statue?

St. Rudolph fought hard, winning the first singles match, but lost the doubles. He frowned at his tired team during the next break, glancing up as the Hyotei audience started up a chant. He blinked, seeing Atobe enter the court with a flourishing wave, the crowd cheering, then stood courtside with the regulars. At least he was early this time. His gaze lingered longer than it should as Atobe locked eyes with him and smirked. Mizuki’s eyebrow twitched.

The next games were brutal and long, but St. Rudolph kept up a fight against the National champions. It was 2-2 and the final Singles game was against Hyotei’s ace, Tanaka. Mizuki looked to Souhei, then clapped his hand on his shoulder.

“You know what to do.”

Souhei nodded and stepped on to the court.

The game started out as intense as the last, Mizuki feeling an inkling of worry for Souhei’s stamina in the heat. They matched each other’s points easily, trading wins until it was four games all. It was at this point he noticed Atobe had gotten up from his seat. He scanned the crowd and noticed him by the stairs on the phone. As the fifth game started, Atobe had stalked off for what he assumed was for a more quiet atmosphere. What a pity.

He didn’t let Atobe’s shenanigans distract him. Not when Souhei needed his support. Tanaka was tough, and they put him in Singles 1 for a reason. But Souhei knew his moves, and responded to them without any sign that he was close to giving up…

The last ten minutes of the game were a blur. Mizuki usually had a great attention to detail, but the passion the two boys put forth made it hard to follow the volleys between them. The crowd got louder and louder in their disbelief, one side erupting into righteous gasps.

“Game, set, match! Kawakami Souhei…!”

Mizuki widened his eyes.

“Winners are St. Rudolph Academy…!”

They beat Hyotei…? Nationals winner Hyotei…?

He felt arms close around him, the boys hopping up and down and screaming happily at their win. Mizuki felt too stunned to reciprocate yet, but eventually pulled his arms around them, laughing out.

He looked beyond their heads, feeling eyes drill into them from afar. Atobe stood by the stairs, a phone still to his ear, staring out at them with a look of disbelief.

Mizuki smiled, and waved. May the rest of Regionals be as fruitful.

~~~

The first day back to practice after Nationals wasn’t one Mizuki was looking forward to. A rock of somberness sat in his stomach for the entire day, the match replaying in the back of his mind throughout his lessons. Souhei was usually a chatty boy in his class, sometimes needing discipline for it, but that day he simply stared down at his work.

They had lost in the first round, and were unable to advance. After a lot of analysis, Mizuki came to the conclusion that it hadn’t been anything they did _wrong_. St. Rudolph was well prepared, but they were inexperienced. They weren’t able to defeat brute strength, absolute power. 

Mizuki was still proud, but he worried about his saddened players. He went to the courts, as they usually did, after school for practice. The six slumped into a line in front of him, all of them looking down at their shoes with a pout.

“Now.” Mizuki straightened himself up. “Stop that. Look up.”

They all simply glanced at him, their heads still dropped forward. 

“Do you know the last time St. Rudolph qualified for Nationals?” He eyed them. They all looked amongst each other and shrugged. “Never!”

The teens still just remained silent, some looking back down at the ground.

“Never…! Isn’t it amazing, that you six were the first?” Mizuki offered a smile, leaning towards them. After getting no response, he sighed and pulled back. “It’s okay to be sad. But we can’t improve if we stand around pouting, hm? We did get new courts, and new equipment, but Hyotei gets those _every_ year!”

He paused, actually not sure that was true.

“It was your hard work that got you so far. Imagine if you keep working hard! What about next year?”

He earned an agreeing grumble from one boy, and Mizuki clapped his hands together. 

“That’s the spirit! Come on now!! Let’s do some stretches.”

Thankfully, the boys jogged off to get started. Mizuki sighed under his breath, clutching his chest. Dealing with sad people was never one of his strong suits, and he didn’t think he did a great job here. But what was there to say? Just flowery never-give-up nonsense. As an adult, he had to be the role model, but he had that heavy feeling sticking to his abdomen. At least if he was still a teen, he probably would have been even more depressed.

He sat watching the somber group run around, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out and blinked, staring at the contact ID.

_Atobe Keigo_.

Mizuki answered it, his voice hissing in suspicion, “This is Mizuki…”

“Mizuki,” Atobe spoke from the other line. “I want a meeting with you tonight.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why for? I don’t owe you our statistics until next month.”

“I know,” Atobe scoffed. “This is for a different matter. Where are you now?”

“I’m at my school, watching over my team.” Mizuki finally smiled a little, curling some hair in a finger, “You saw us at Regionals, yes?”

“We’ll pick you up at 6 PM.” Mizuki heard the familiar boops of the line being dropped. He frowned at his phone, and pocketed it. Still as rude as ever.

That evening, he left with the six tennis players at 6 PM, giving them a smile and a wave. Thankfully, they waved back and at least attempted to smile.

Mizuki wasn’t sure what he was looking for, adjusting his bag on his shoulder as he looked for any sign that he was getting picked up. Glancing up at the sky nervously, a Rolls Royce pulled up to him on the street outside the campus grounds. Michael got out from the driver’s seat upfront and opened the door for him in the back.

“Mizuki-san.”

“T...thank you.” 

He slipped into the seat, scrutinizing the fancy interior, and startling as he noticed Atobe lounged out in the seat beside him. He looked comfortable, but also kind of like a disaster. Parts of him seemed _off_ , like the weird half of a spot-the-difference puzzle. Atobe eyed him back, a glass of champagne in one hand, the other gesturing to another glass on the console between them.

“Um, no thank you.” Mizuki crossed his arms, looking around the car some more. It was the fanciest car he’d ever been in, and perhaps cleaner than both him and Atobe.

“Fine,” Atobe said, sipping the alcohol. “How are you.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“You’re right,” Atobe said before knocking back the rest of the glass. “Congratulations on getting to Nationals.”

Mizuki glanced over. Atobe’s hair was messy, and not in the purposeful way. His clothes were wrinkled, and his eyes seemed droopy.

Mizuki looked back out the window. “Thank you. Hyotei put up a good fight, but we were ultimately victorious.”

“I saw. It was—”

“No you didn’t!” Mizuki laughed out suddenly, looking back at the man, who looked annoyed to be interrupted. “Excuse me but… No you didn’t. You arrived late, and you took a phone call during Singles 3. You missed the end!”

Atobe frowned, and just looked out the window himself. “I was there.”

“I disagree with that assessment, Atobe-san.”

Silence fell thick between them. Mizuki tapped the crook of his elbow until they reached the Atobe office. He followed Atobe and Michael out and to the private elevator Atobe used to go up to his office — it was a back entrance that required Atobe’s fingerprint to enter.

The office looked the same, and Atobe settled in his chair with a light sigh. Mizuki stood for a moment, but slowly sat himself in the chair across from him.

“Michael, tea please.” Atobe looked to the man who bowed and left the office, then changed his gaze to Mizuki. 

He waited for Atobe to speak, and frowned when he said nothing. “Well, what is it? You invited me here.”

“I did.” Atobe looked up as Michael came back with the tray. After putting aside a file tray, Michael set the tea down on Atobe’s desk between them, poured two cups, then made his leave. Atobe took his cup and sipped it. “I was waiting for Michael to leave us alone.”

“Oh…” Mizuki frowned, but took a drink of his tea as well. It was a green tea rather than an Atobe blend this time.

“I’ve been impressed by you, Mizuki.”

“Nfu, really? You? Of all people?” Mizuki gave him a sardonic smile, setting his cup down. 

Atobe frowned. “Yes.” He shifted forward. “It’s annoying that you act like you know me.”

“Well, I do know you, Atobe-san. I’ve known of you for a long time. I could probably guess your next move no matter how hard you tried to conceal it.”

“Doubtful.” Atobe gave a sarcastic laugh. “It’s unfortunate, ahn? That I’ve forgotten everything about you.”

Mizuki frowned, not sure how to take that. Turning in his chair, Atobe looked straight at him, an intense gaze that made a chill go down his spine. His tongue felt dry, making him reach for his cup of tea.

Atobe reached across the desk and grabbed his hand before he could. “Mizuki. I want you to join Hyotei.”

Mizuki stared at their hands together, his eyes slowly looking up to the man across him in confusion. Atobe’s blue eyes were focused, serious on him. He noticed the tired lines under his bottom eyelashes.

Mizuki drew his hand away, his voice uneasy, “In what capacity?”

“Any position. You would be welcomed in the science department. We’d have you in the tennis club.”

“Atobe-san, I am committed to my school.” Atobe said nothing. Mizuki eyed him, then cleared his throat and continued, “I’m not interested.”

“You have more to offer to Hyotei than St. Rudolph and you know that, Mizuki. St. Rudolph’s attendance has been trending downward for the past three years—”

“And what happened when I joined the faculty, Atobe-san?” Mizuki put a hand to his chest. “I saw the need for improvement, and I made it happen! We went to Nationals! Imagine our new students next year—”

“You lost the first round at Nationals, and you got lucky in Prefecturals. Fudomine’s top player was injured this year—”

“Luck has _nothing_ to do with it! I put in the work, my players put in the work—”

Atobe raised his voice, “You’d be better off with _me_!”

Silence fell between them, Mizuki frozen with a mix of shock and anger, before Atobe stood up, going to a window. Mizuki finally looked up, frowning. The glow of the setting sun illuminated Atobe perfectly, accentuating his golden hair. It made Mizuki feel even more angry. He sipped his tea to simmer down, and to untangle the weird feelings in his stomach.

“...What was the point of your grant, then?” Mizuki asked him. Atobe was staring back at him now from his place by the window.

“You asked that before. My answer hasn’t changed.”

“Well, to me,” Mizuki sat the tea cup back down as he spoke, “it feels awfully like you’re trying to get someone to do your dirty work.”

“What?”

“Your grant was very beneficial to us, Atobe-san. We both saw the results. Why would I change my course now? Just to make you feel better about yourself?”

Atobe’s face hardened into a glare. “It’s not about me. And we both know it was not just the money that improved your team.” 

“Is Atobe-san actually paying me a compliment?” Mizuki sneered, shaking his head. “I’m not interested. The end.”

He picked up the tea again, staring down at the liquid, the surface trembling from his grip. Mizuki looked up as Atobe kept glaring at him, and scoffed before setting his tea cup down.

“Atobe,” he started, dropping the formality, “I know who you are, and I’ve known since middle school. You are controlling, arrogant, you want only the best for yourself.”

Atobe narrowed his eyes in annoyed confusion. “What point are you trying to make.”

“I’m saying…” Mizuki took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he spoke, “You want to control so many things, but you can’t. You want me to transfer, because you want the best for your old middle school, but you are unavailable to them. Because you choose your work over it.”

He opened his eyes, seeing Atobe still giving him a bit of a dirty look. Mizuki leaned over the table.

“You’re jealous of me.”

“ _What?!_ ” Atobe finally reacted, turning towards him completely with a grumble of disbelief, “I am absolutely not jealous of you, or of anyone.”

“Oh, yes you are. You are jealous I get to control… ahem, coach, my own tennis team. That I was able to help them and improve. You throw money at Hyotei, but you have no further involvement! You do try, but you arrive late, or slip out for a phone call!” Mizuki shook his head. “All you do is work work work. You have no secretaries, no assistants. Michael only helps you set appointments, and… whatever else he does! It isn’t work, whatever it is!”

“I work,” Atobe spoke, his voice dark as he stepped closer, “because this is my company. I can’t expect others to know how _my_ company should be run. I am jealous of no one.”

Mizuki frowned up at him, twirling a strand of hair in a finger. “You don’t intimidate me, Atobe. I pity you.”

“I have nothing you can pity me for.” Atobe gestured an arm around his office. “Look at all that I have! If I don’t continue in my father’s place, my company—”

“I pity you for what you _don’t_ have, Atobe,” Mizuki interrupted, standing from the table. “I’m leaving. My answer is still no.”

Atobe glared at him, but went over to lead him to the office doors. He spoke under his breath as he gave Mizuki a steely gaze. “Your preliminary statistics are due soon. Call me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t.” Mizuki eyed him back, their eyes locking before Mizuki _hmph_ ’d and made his way out.


	5. Chapter 5

Life hadn’t been normal since he started working, but Mizuki felt like it was starting to be. The grant’s money was all spent, the renovations were finished as quickly as they began, and the tennis club got over their disappointment and were back to their usual cheery selves. His routine was consistent: Monday through Friday, he woke at 7 AM to get ready for work, and got home around 6 PM, graded papers or worked on lesson plans, and was in bed by 11 PM. On the weekends, he cleaned his apartment, went shopping, and caught up with the news. It was the boring, independent life he expected he’d have when he became an adult.

Boring was still _boring_ , though. Throughout the workday he could talk with his coworkers, interact with his students, and coach his tennis players. When he was a student, he would return to his dorm where he could talk with his fellow dormmates, and nag them as their RA.

Who could he talk to all alone in his apartment? Often only to himself… and that got tiring.

Mizuki looked up from cooking some soup for dinner one night with a frown.

_Was this loneliness?_

The thought made him shudder, and he quickly distracted himself with something else.

The next day was going to be another one of the same, until Watanabe caught him on his lunch. He knocked on the frame of his door, and Mizuki nodded for him to come inside. The older man shuffled in, his eyes looking anywhere but at Mizuki.

“Mizuki-san,” he started, and his voice wavered. “We have the report.”

Mizuki blinked, having forgotten for a moment, then widened his eyes, “Oh. The…?”

“Yes, our expected new enrollments for next year.” Watanabe adjusted his glasses. “So far, anyway.”

“Ah.” _Ah._ Mizuki cleared his throat. “May we meet tonight after school, then?”

“Please,” Watanabe answered quickly, then bowed before shuffling off.

How Watanabe was so good at making Mizuki unnecessarily anxious, he hoped he at least kept it to himself.

The day passed fast thanks to conducting experiments all day for his lessons, and the tennis club had no qualms being left to their own devices. (And Mizuki was _certain_ they didn’t actually _prefer_ being on their own.) 

He settled into the seat across from Watanabe’s desk. The man took a deep breath then set the paper down. “F-first, it must be said that this is a preliminary report. We may gain more students at the last moment…”

Mizuki nodded. “I understand.”

“...But it also must be said that a lot of students have decided on their school, so... it may not change much.” Watanabe said nothing else and simply pushed the paper forward. Mizuki snatched it up and brought it to his eyes.

His eyes traveled down the chart, bypassing ‘currently enrolled students’, ‘graduating students’, and other statistics such as ‘dormitory students’, straight to the box labeled ‘upcoming new enrollments.’

Twenty-seven (27.)

Mizuki blinked slowly, then looked to the box below it.

‘Last year’s new enrollments: 46.’

His hands squeezed the paper, crinkling it, causing Watanabe to make a pained noise. He set it down.  
“Twenty…” Mizuki croaked, “...seven…?”

“Yes, Mizuki-san… twenty-seven.”

“How is it so low!! We redid the school, our tennis team went to Nationals, we…!” The words died on his lips, and he instead moaned, slumping down on Watanabe’s desk… until Watanabe cleared his throat and he snapped straight back up. “Excuse me.”

“I know Atobe-san requires you to submit this…” Watanabe pulled out another copy of the paper, starting to hand it over before Mizuki held his hand up. 

“I’ll take the first one…” He took the crinkled paper, tucking it under his arm. “I’ll be sure to stress these aren’t the final numbers.”

Watanabe nodded solemnly. Mizuki looked at the pathetic middle-aged man, and swallowed a sigh.

“... It’s okay, Watanabe-san. We just need to spread the word about how we’ve improved. People haven’t learned what we’ve done yet. Right?”

Watanabe forced a smile and nodded. “That’s right, Mizuki-san. We’ll work harder on promoting the school.”

They both got up from their seats, and Mizuki bidded Watanabe goodbye as he made his leave. He went back to his desk and pouted down at the report. Mizuki always believed in ripping off the bandaid instead of letting it fester when there was a problem he couldn’t fix. Or couldn’t fix right away, that is.

After looking at the paper for a long time, he finally opened Atobe’s contact, pressed ‘call’ and lifted the phone to his ear.

“Mizuki,” Atobe answered the phone immediately, “You’ve changed your—”

“No! I did _not_ change my mind, sir!” Mizuki steamed, then sighed out, slumping against his desk. He frowned down at the chart for what felt like the thousandth time, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. “I… have the preliminary report. Of our new enrollments. For. This school year.”

“Let’s meet,” Atobe clattered something in the background as he spoke. “I’ll pick you up.”

“What…? No, I know where your office is. I’ll meet you tomorrow at 6 PM.” Mizuki wanted another night to chew on how to best present such horrible news to a man who invested so much in him.

“I want to meet tonight,” Atobe said firmly, and repeated, “I’ll pick you up. Are you at St. Rudolph?”

Mizuki covered the mouthpiece of his phone and groaned in frustration, uncovering it to hiss, “I’m _busy_. I have a life outside this school!”

“You don’t have plans tonight.”

“I do have plans!”

“What plans?” Atobe’s question wasn’t actually a question. Atobe knew he was lying, and Mizuki groaned again, this time not bothering to muffle the noise. Atobe asked again, “What plans?”

“Fine! I don’t have plans, Atobe. But I don’t want to meet tonight!”

Atobe _tch_ ’d and fell quiet. Mizuki scratched at the table top, staring down, again, at the number 27 in the box labeled ‘upcoming new enrollments.’ In the silence, he allowed his head to drop on to the desk, wishing he was impolite enough to just hang up on the rich man, and dramatic enough to wail the sorrows he felt.

Finally Atobe spoke, his words tinged with exasperation, “Can I not just see you? We don’t have to talk about the report.”

Mizuki lifted his head, frowning, “What?”

“I want to see you. Let me see you.”

Mizuki’s chest lurched, for a moment thinking he might throw up, even shuffling up from his chair in case something did come, but realized he was just surprised rather than sick. Maybe he would have preferred feeling sick.

“Oh,” Mizuki ultimately said, pausing, then adding, “Fine.”

“I’ll pick you up,” Atobe said before abruptly ending the call. Mizuki looked at the phone in offense, but lifted himself from his chair, moving as if his limbs were as heavy as iron. He eyed the ungraded worksheets, sighing and shuffling them into a folder before ceremoniously shoving them into his bag along with the report.

Dim lights still lit the hallways as Mizuki headed out, hearing the shuffle of other teachers staying in their respective classrooms finishing their work. He could hear the baseball club finishing their practice through the thin windows, and sneezed at the dust and dirt they were surely kicking up. He dabbed his nose with a hankie as he stepped into the bathroom. He didn’t have to relieve himself except of the need to make sure he looked presentable. He pulled out his cosmetic pouch, taking the time to tuck away flyaway hairs with spots of wax, reapplying balm to his dried lips, and giving a splash of water to his face. He scrutinized himself, and swore he saw the beginning of fine lines near his eyes.

Working with Atobe was going to ruin his wrinkle-free face, he was sure. _Why_ was he meeting with him, if they weren’t even doing so for business? 

As he stepped outside into the dusk air, heading towards the front of the school, he racked his brain. Why did Atobe want to see him so bad? To fight with him about how he called him jealous? Call him unappreciative? To yell at him for the wasted opportunity? He had to have known what a failure this whole grant turned out to be.

Twenty-seven…

The number echoed in his mind, distracting him, Mizuki only startling back to the real world once the sleek Rolls Royce slowed to a stop in front of him. He patted a drifting strand of hair back into place, and climbed into the back seat himself, too impatient to wait for Michael. Atobe was already lounged there, as expected, a flute of champagne in one hand. Another glass sat on the middle console. This time, Mizuki swiped up the glass and knocked some of it back in a gulp.

Atobe raised a brow at the rather uncouth display, but didn’t seem to mind as he raised his in a toast. “Cheers,” he said in a voice dripping with anything but cheer.

Mizuki _clink_ ’d their glasses together, then sipped in a more polite manner. “What are we cheering for? Get any big accounts at the big corporation today?”

“No,” Atobe said, rather plainly for his usually boisterous self. “Work was dreadful today. Your call came at a good time.”

Mizuki eyed the blond man, who busyed himself by looking at the bubbles in his drink. His call was anything but _good_. “Excuse me? A good time?”

“You heard what I said. I’m not repeating myself.” Atobe offered himself another sip, then grunted, “If you must act dense, this is a date, Mizuki.”

Mizuki, who had been in the midst of another drink, sputtered a bit, managing to at least recover and swallow it down with a cough. With a pat of his chest, he (unfortunately) squeaked, “A date?!”

“Yes. Quit playing the fool. Didn’t you say you knew whatever next step I would take no matter how hard I tried to conceal it?” Atobe rolled his eyes, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “If someone invites you out with no business to be done, it’s a date. I’m starting to think you’ve never dated before.”

The glass in Mizuki’s hand would have shattered if it were made of cheaper materials, but this was a cup purchased by the Atobe family, so it was actually quite sturdy. Mizuki set it down, his fingers curling tightly on each other instead. “H-how insulting! I was busy studying, and readying myself for my career, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t—!!”

“It’s true, then.” Atobe leaned in, his gaze almost wolfish. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“Go back to your side of the car, pervert,” Mizuki squawked, squishing himself to the car door to escape him. “Wh-where are we going, then?”

Atobe leaned back as requested. “The Hyotei grounds.”

“What?!” Mizuki hissed, springing back to be the one leaning towards Atobe. “Atobe, I told you on firm grounds last time I am _not_ joining—”

“We won’t be talking about that,” Atobe, for the first time, chuckled. “I told you there is no business being done, ahn? I like being there.”

Mizuki looked at Atobe, actually looked at him, and saw the relaxation in his face. It was a big difference from when they first saw each other after nearly ten years. (Or, perhaps, the first time Mizuki saw Atobe after ten years, as Atobe apparently could not recall or remember him at all to notice a difference anyway.) The stern brow was soft, the icy eyes were warm, the mouth that was usually firm in either a frown or smirk was actually… _smiling_.

It made his chest throb again. Mizuki cleared his throat and looked as they stopped outside what he assumed was a private entrance to Hyotei. Michael opened his door, allowing Mizuki to slide out of the car and into the fresh night air. 

Atobe joined at his side, and Mizuki felt a hand clasp in his. Atobe’s fingers were strong but soft, attributed to his life of privilege. They curled around his palm, firm but gentle enough to allow Mizuki to pull away if he wanted. He thought about it, and decided he didn’t want to.

They walked into the main courtyard of the school grounds, flanked by various buildings. He let Atobe lead him, having only fuzzy memories of the campus from the one or two practice matches they held together, but remembered the feeling of being overwhelmed by the looming buildings and the big, open spaces between them. He assumed Michael was calling the campus security to let them know Atobe was patrolling the grounds, as anyone else would already have a flashlight on them and a barrage of questions to answer.

Atobe stopped in front of a fountain which trickled and sprayed quietly in the night air, chilling Mizuki and making him shiver. He looked up and saw the simple name plate on the nearby building: ‘Clubhouse.’

“Nfu, is this where your kingdom used to be based?”

“Yes. This is where I led my players.” Atobe sat on the edge of the fountain, crossing his legs in front of himself as he leaned back. Mizuki stayed standing, hesitating as he hugged his arms to himself. “Sit.”

Mizuki sighed, and sat in the space next to Atobe, who scooted closer to him, their thighs touching. Mizuki’s body flushed, but otherwise, he made no move. “How was your work dreadful?”

“It’s uninteresting. There were a lot of meetings.” Atobe closed his eyes. “Decisions to make.”

“Well, what kind of decisions?”

“Ahn? Why do you care?” Atobe opened one eye to give him a look. “Bonuses. Salary. The board didn’t want to increase them this year.”

Mizuki blinked. “And you wanted to…?”

Atobe raised a brow at him, looking at him in bewilderment. “Of course. Our profits increased, why wouldn’t salaries and bonuses increase, too?”

“That,” Mizuki kept staring at him in slight disbelief, “sounds right.”

“It’s a headache. They don’t respect my choices yet,” Atobe shrugged. “They trusted my father. I need to have them come to trust me. Having them approve the grants was like pulling teeth.”

It suddenly felt like Mizuki understood everything. He looked to the stars. “That does sound stressful.”

“I’m not stressed.”

_Liar._ “Nfu, well, you must miss your Hyotei days, if you’re bringing me here on our first date.”

Atobe gave a short ‘hah!’, causing Mizuki to glance back at him. “Sometimes!”

“Just sometimes?” Mizuki gave a bitter smile, leaning back on one hand, the other twirling a bang of hair as he mused, “I think of my years at St. Rudolph all the time, now that I teach there. Nn, it’s almost annoying. _Tiring_ , all the nostalgia.”

“I do not intend to look at the past,” Atobe said as his hand drifted back, resting on top of Mizuki’s, “but I miss playing tennis. I had great success here, as a leader.”

“I understand. I stopped playing after middle school, and did not miss it for many years.” Mizuki’s fingers curled around Atobe’s as he closed in on his hand. “Watching my players succeed with my guidance, I remember why I liked it so much.”

“Right,” Atobe gave a snort, “you were always gathering information on other players in middle school despite not being a great player yourself.”

Mizuki rolled his eyes, but did not refute that. “My data was a great help to my players. Back then, and now! We did beat your doubles players—”

“It was the only game you had won against us in that tournament,” Atobe sighed, but his breath was tinged with amusement. “I beat you six games all.”

“Don’t remind me,” Mizuki scoffed, then paused, looking to Atobe with big eyes, impressed, “You remembered!”

Atobe turned his head, smirking at the smaller man, and causing his heart to thud for the third time that night. Usually the sight of Atobe’s smirk made Mizuki’s anger flare to his ears, but the expression was different from its usual annoying smugness. It seemed… pleased. 

Mizuki swallowed, then offered Atobe a smirk of his own. He pulled his hand away to bring the both of them together to start a clap. “Congratulations, you have a memory after all!”

Atobe laughed out, a loud sound that echoed in this cranny of the campus. Mizuki paused his sarcastic clapping, blinking at Atobe in surprise. Instead of getting a scoffed, annoyed barb in reply, Atobe instead leaned over, his forehead bumping against Mizuki’s.

“Mizuki,” he breathed, “Thanks.”

Atobe kissed him.

The first thing that strikes him about kissing Atobe is that his lips taste like mint and vanilla. It’s an almost childish taste, favored by teens trying to act adult, but the thought only strikes him when he thinks about it at a later time. Fitting for the setting, at least. In the moment, though, he’s quickly distracted by tasting his sweet tongue tinged with champagne.

(Mizuki feared for a long time that the only kisses he’d ever taste would be of alcohol. University was speckled with weekend parties where Mizuki got tipsy off cheap wine, and kissed and touched other equally drunk young men. He felt lucky he had experience at all before kissing the most eligible bachelor in Japan, nay, the world. But the light flavor of Atobe’s tongue feels sober compared to the tongues he tasted in college, which were soaked with cheap conbini cocktails-in-a-can.)

Mizuki only realized he was still chilly from the fountain’s mist when Atobe placed a warm hand on his lower back, causing a wave of heat to course through his body. Mizuki shifted towards him as their lips moved together, knees bumping against Atobe’s, his hand rising slowly to rest on Atobe’s upper arm. Perhaps this morning, perhaps even just half an hour ago, the thought of kissing Atobe would make him frown and maybe even gag, but Mizuki realizes that’s just how it is with Atobe. 

Sometimes he was the most frustrating person he had ever met — a business CEO with endless money, opportunities and power, who spoke only in demands, all propped on top of an arrogant attitude. Who seemed to only do things in his own interests. Sometimes, despite all of his privileges, he was surprisingly _human_ , who masked but still had his weaknesses, his feelings, his desires for the non-material — he was a man who worked harder than anyone else, who worked to support his company, and the people that lived in his world, someone who stretched himself thin to do so.

Mizuki swooned, leaning forward towards the bigger man, who easily scooped him closer, almost into his lap, as they remained liplocked.

Atobe pulled back for a breath first, their noses pressed together as they gathered themselves. Mizuki felt dizzy, pulling back to breathe in the cool air of the twilight.

“Was that alright.”

Mizuki took a moment, then blinked at Atobe, who was now frowning. He furrowed his own brow in confusion. “W-was what alright?”

“That I kissed you.”

Mizuki stared at him, then laughed, “What are you talking about?”

Atobe, rolling his eyes, stood up. “Don’t know why I asked. Obviously you welcomed it.”

Atobe held out a hand to Mizuki to help him up. Mizuki looked at it for only a brief moment before taking it — and held on to it. He squeezed.

They walked through the grounds back to where the car remained parked, waiting for their return. It was only on this journey back did Mizuki smell the freshly bloomed roses.

“Why did you thank me?” he asked.

“I had forgotten,” Atobe said, “what this felt like.”

~~~

It wasn’t something Mizuki wanted to put off, so on the ride home, he had pushed the report into Atobe’s hands for his review. Atobe had read over it, every single last detail (much to Mizuki’s dismay), but only handed it back with an ‘I see,’ and a request to email him a copy. Mizuki fought an urge to shake him and demand he tell him how he really felt about only twenty-fucking-seven new students, swallowing it down successfully until they reached his apartment. Atobe kissed him goodbye, and told him goodnight.

“Thanks for the, uh,” Mizuki stammered, blushing. “The date.”

Atobe smirked. “Let’s have another.” Then he rode off.

Mizuki twitched as he watched the lights of the car disappear around a corner. How could one day be so bad, and be so…? He didn’t want to admit how he felt about the date yet.

After showering and indulging in his nightly skincare routine, he settled into bed, and returned to his usual day-to-day business after a night’s sleep. Before his classes the next morning, he sent off the report to Atobe’s email. 

He had a reply by lunchtime:

‘ _Thanks._

_Let’s meet soon._

_Atobe Keigo - CEO_

_Sent from my iPhone_ ’

Dear god, he had to show him how to take that off his signature.


	6. Chapter 6

At the end of the day, Mizuki knocked on Watanabe’s door. Watanabe looked up and nodded for him to come in.

“Good day, Watanabe-san,” he nodded back to him as he sat down. “Thank you for your hard work.”

The headmaster nodded back with a tiny smile. “Thank you for your hard work, Mizuki-san. Did you hear back from Atobe-san…?”

Mizuki paused, swallowing hard to keep back a blush, then coughed. “Oh, yes.”

Watanabe leaned in for more. Mizuki offered a smile, sensing the man was a jumble of nerves.

“It’s nothing to worry about, when it comes to Atobe-san. There weren’t any conditions. They just wanted to know. Perhaps for the next time they have a grant.”

“Oh, I _know_ , Mizuki-san, but I do want him, a-and everyone, to have a good impression of St. Rudolph…” Watanabe warbled, his hands squeezing together. “We’ve worked so hard, and we are still trending downwards…”

“So do I,” Mizuki put a hand to his chest as he spoke. “But I know St. Rudolph is on an amazing trend upwards. We’ve made many improvements! We just need to wait for the world to notice, hm?”

Watanabe looked up, and Mizuki gave him a smile. Watanabe smiled back. For the first time, Mizuki believed in what he was saying.

Twenty-seven… 

It was better than twenty-six.

~~~

The security guard shook his head at Mizuki, speaking gruffly, “I don’t see you on the list of visitors or contractors today. I can’t let you in.”

Mizuki frowned. His surprise visit was being _ruined_ by security protocol. “Call Atobe-san. He’ll let me in.”

“Sir, I cannot call the CEO just to try and let you in. If you’re not on the list, you can’t come in. Please leave the vicinity.”

“Fine! I’ll call him!” And so he did. His smug smile at the guard slowly turned into a frown as the line kept ringing, and ringing, and ringing… did Atobe not have voicemail? “Let me try again.”

“Sir, please leave the—”

His phone rang with a call from Atobe before he was able to make the call back himself. He answered quickly. “Atobe! I’m at your office, and your security guard won’t let me in.”

“Mizuki?” Atobe sounded, for once, shocked, and it gave Mizuki much joy. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you say you wanted to meet soon? Well, I’m here! Tell your guard to let me in.” He pushed his phone to the guard, who frowned, but took it from him. After just a second, he handed Mizuki his phone back, and finally opened the door. Mizuki repeated this procedure with the receptionist, and the next guard. The elevator to Atobe’s office was already open for him.

As he was about to step out of the private elevator, he was the one to be shocked as the doors opened to Atobe standing there looking flustered.

“Oh! Atobe!”

“Mizuki, what are you doing?” Atobe was in all black — a simple black dress shirt with gold buttons, and a classic pair of black slacks and leather dress shoes. His hair was as handsomely tousled as ever, but his eyes still betrayed his stress levels.

“I’m seeing you,” Mizuki bat his eyelashes at him, arms crossed, “like you asked.”

Atobe seemed to consider his answer before he rolled his eyes, but smirked to show his amusement, and turned to step back into his office. Mizuki followed with a triumphant hum, allowing himself a look around the office bathed in the light of the sunset. 

He heard Atobe typing away at something as he lifted books and photos from the shelves, staring for a moment at a picture from a tennis tournament. Atobe stood next to an equally tall brunette, who looked seriously into the camera as Atobe grinned. They both held trophies. Mizuki narrowed his eyes trying to place the person, then blinked in realization.

“Oh, is this Tezuka?”

Atobe looked up, his hands paused. “Ahn? Yes. That’s him.”

“He’s still playing tennis, isn’t he?” He turned to look at Atobe, who was leaning forward on his desk watching Mizuki. 

“Yes. He’s still competing. Competing against him was the best time I had playing tennis.” Atobe looked wistful, which didn’t suit him. It made Mizuki smile.

“Do you think you’d ever play again, Atobe?”

“I play tennis on Sundays.”

“While I’m surprised you take some time for yourself, I meant professionally.”

“Ahn? Probably not. It’s fine.” Atobe turned back to his computer.

“Hmm.” Mizuki rolled his tongue around in his mouth as he considered such an answer. “Is that how you truly feel?”

Atobe sighed. “Yes. I always knew I would take over for my father when he retired.”

“It’s lovely that you want to keep it in the family, but you should be allowed your own aspirations.” Mizuki set the photo down, looking back at Atobe for his expression. He didn’t really have one now, but his hands had stopped typing. “Do you agree?”

“Well,” Atobe started, then seemed to scowl as he lost his words. Mizuki smiled, and clapped his hands together.

“I know, I know. It’s complicated.” Mizuki turned back to the shelves. “Having happiness is the most important. But, to be honest, I am not sure you are.”

Mizuki heard Atobe get up from his chair, making Mizuki a tad uneasy wondering if Atobe was getting tired of all the prodding. Instead, Atobe stood beside him, looking at the shelf of pictures. While there were recent pictures like the one with him and Tezuka, there were also photos from his childhood. Mizuki eyed one of Atobe as a young kid in some sort of beach-y cabana.

“Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?” Mizuki waited for him to say something else, and continued when he didn’t, “Atobe, of the many times I’ve had the _luxury_ of meeting you this year, you always looked stressed, tired, and busy.”

Atobe looked down at him at his side, then looked back. “I can’t be a kid without responsibilities forever, Mizuki. This is my job, this is my company—”

“I know that, Atobe, you’ve said that many times,” Mizuki interrupted, “I’m not saying _quit_. I’m saying… get an assistant! Something!”

“Are you saying you want to be my assistant?”

“No!” Mizuki shook his head, and suddenly grabbed Atobe’s hand, a shock to them both. But he strengthened his resolve, and squeezed it. “I’m saying, stop working so hard. You look _terrible_.”

Atobe’s eyes narrowed at him as he seemed to consider this, then he slowly touched his own face with his other hand. “I have started to get wrinkles. None of my eye creams are working — I’ve tried many.”

Mizuki nodded solemnly. “You need to relax more. How many hours of sleep do you get per night?”

“God, maybe four, five hours?”

“ _Four hours_!” Mizuki squawked in disbelief, then grabbed Atobe’s other hand, shaking him as the blond blinked down at him in surprise. “You need at _least_ six to eight!! It’s amazing you don’t have _more_ wrinkles!”

“It’s amazing you still find me attractive,” Atobe said in amusement, “after finding out about my horrible sleeping habits, ahn?”

“It is!” Mizuki paused, and blushed as he realized what he just admitted. “I-I am simply passionate about good sleep hygiene…!”

“Maybe,” Atobe spoke in a smooth voice, and brought Mizuki taut to his own body in an embrace, making him melt, “you can teach me.”

They kissed, and this time Mizuki thought he would be prepared, but he still felt a lurch in his chest. Atobe brushed some of Mizuki’s hair back, and pressed against him completely, Mizuki feeling shelves push into his back. His arms circled around Atobe’s shoulders — he was a strong, built man, someone he felt free to lean his weight on. The firm hands held him up by his waist, Atobe leaning in more and more as if he couldn’t get enough, the wood digging into Mizuki uncomfortably.

“A-Atobe,” he hissed as he forced himself away from his hungry mouth, “you’re going to squish me…”

Instead of saying anything, Atobe grabbed Mizuki by his thighs, picking him up and turning them around. Mizuki instinctively clinged, his legs crossing around Atobe’s hips, his arms tightening their hold on his shoulders. Atobe dipped in for another kiss, before pulling back to press kisses to his neck, giving Mizuki the feeling of being eaten alive. A whimper bloomed in his throat, his fingernails digging into Atobe’s back, who squeezed his thighs as he held him.

“If you give me a hickey,” Mizuki breathed out, his whole body feeling hot, “I’ll _kill_ you.”

Atobe paused his nibbling, then sucked gently on his skin in clear defiance, earning a ‘hey!’ before it dissolved into a needy whine. He adjusted his grip on Mizuki before lifting him up, then set him down on the desk, causing a file tray to squeak across the top as it was pushed aside. Mizuki placed a hand on the back of Atobe’s neck as they kissed again, Atobe leaning over him.

It was all becoming a hot blur in Mizuki’s head, only able to focus on Atobe’s lips and firm touch. Atobe’s hand slid up and down, lingering at his waist, thigh, and chest at any given moment. The hard wood of the desk was starting to hurt, as was his desire, so Mizuki allowed his hips to shift forward, his legs dangling further off the desk. Atobe’s hand swiftly grabbed one by the knee and pushed it aside, Mizuki gasping between them, and allowing Atobe to growl out.

“This,” he started tersely, and Mizuki immediately realized he was _lusting_ , “needs to be moved. Elsewhere.”

Mizuki pulled back, gathering himself with a breath, then batted his eyelashes up at Atobe. “Where to? Can you even contain yourself long enough?” Mizuki glanced down to his crotch. Atobe noticed, frowned, and shoved his hips against the desk. “Humans are animals, Atobe. Don’t be embarrassed for having needs!”

“You want me to fuck you on my desk?” The way Atobe effortlessly said ‘fuck’ made Mizuki tremble.

“Do _you_ want to f-f…” Mizuki blushed, choking on the word, the reality of the situation hitting and stunning him like a sack of bricks. The situation hit him in his loins as well, the front of his pants feeling tighter. 

Atobe raised a brow, the wolfish smile returning to his face. Mizuki sighed feeling Atobe’s finger trail along his chin, tilted up so their lips brushed together as Atobe spoke, “What was that?”

Mizuki swallowed, then hissed, “You want to fuck me on this desk. On your desk.”

“Mizuki,” Atobe’s voice dripped with lust and amusement, “I’m not a fool. When you ask me the same question I ask you, it means _yes_ , doesn’t it?”

“N-no it doesn’t—” Mizuki blurted.

“What do you want to do, then?”

Mizuki looked aside shyly, privately thinking nothing sounded dirtier than being fucked on a desk. In both the messy way, and the _absolutely hot_ way. However, it wasn’t exactly how he saw his first hook up with Atobe going. (His first hook up, period.)

“L-let’s go back to your place. Call a limo. Whatever.”

Instead of pulling away, Atobe shocked him by kissing him fervently, pulling a mewl from Mizuki’s throat. But he let up quickly this time, standing straight with a hiss of ‘fine.’

Mizuki straightened up after gathering his bearings, watching Atobe step back as he pulled out his phone, admiring his tousled hair and wrinkled clothing. Atobe mumbled to Michael to get the car ready, holding out a hand to Mizuki. He took it, and hopped down off the desk with a wobble.

They hurried out of the office once Atobe locked it up, and went into the private elevator. Atobe had started to check his email on his phone, then paused, and repocketed it. Mizuki smiled, pleased, and grabbed his arm with both of his hands in a cling.

“Turn it off,” Mizuki purred up at him, “if you want to have sex with me.”

Atobe looked down at him with burning eyes, and without wasting another a moment, pulled the phone out, and powered it off.

~~~

Mizuki woke to a chime going off on Atobe’s side table, then a smack that silenced the alarm. The strong arms then circled tight around his waist, fingers stroking his flat stomach. It made goosebumps rise on Mizuki’s skin despite feeling so warm.

His body felt sore in places he hadn’t felt sore before — it wasn’t painful, but felt good like a gentle ache after a long workout. He sighed softly, closing his eyes again.

“Don’t you have work…?” Mizuki asked quietly, all too aware of their legs tangling together under the duvet.

“I can go in later. I’m the CEO.”

Mizuki rolled his eyes, but chuckled. His hand hesitated, then reached down to hold one of Atobe’s. Their fingers folded together. “You can have a day off. Maybe you never knew that because you never worked a normal job, but you can.”

Atobe snorted behind him, but simply relaxed in his spot in the sheets without saying anything. Mizuki yawned softly, relaxing back against the strong body that held him close. The sense of peace took over his senses, lulling him back into a light doze. His eyes snapped back open feeling a touch in his nether regions shortly after, reaching down to smack the wandering hand.

“Excuse you!”

“What?”

“You can’t just _touch_ me while I’m sleeping!”

“Oh,” Atobe said with sort of a dazed tone, and the hand pulled back as he sat up. “Fine.”

Mizuki turned on to his other side, his brow stern even as he admired Atobe’s fine, toned body, exposed from the blanket sliding down. He felt his face flush, and he couldn’t control a goofy smile as he remembered that body hovering above him, and pressing against his own last night.

“You look ridiculous,” Atobe spoke from above, a smirk across on his face. A hand pushed back his messy blond hair, making him even more effortlessly handsome. 

Mizuki’s face pulled back into a pout quickly, then he shuffled to be sitting up as well. He couldn’t face what a night of romping had done to his waxed hair, so he aggressively ignored the mirrors facing around Atobe’s bed. “And you think you’re so beautiful in the morning! Well—!”

“From the way you’re looking at me,” Atobe grinned as he spoke, “I do.”

Atobe lifted himself from the bed as Mizuki’s face burned from the absolutely accurate statement that truly stabbed him in the heart from how right it was. It kept burning as he watched Atobe’s ass retreat into his grand bathroom. With a moan, he flopped on his back in the bed, staring up at the intricate ceiling he only saw in the darkness last night.

‘ _Ah_ ,’ he thought, ‘ _so that’s what that design is_.’

He heard Atobe request breakfast from whatever phone there was, a full English breakfast with Atobe blend tea specifically, and then heard him start a bath. Mizuki decided he should get up too, and slipped out of the bed to join him.

Thankfully, he found a robe (black, made of silk) before he walked into the big, marbled bathroom. It was a bit big, and tacky, but it did its job covering him up. He leaned against the wall of the entryway. 

“Atobe blend, hm?”

Atobe was relaxed back completely, his legs stretched out with even room to spare in such a big tub. He grinned at him. “Have you had it?”

“...Yes, actually,” Mizuki sighed, walking to the edge of the water, gingerly peeling off the robe before slipping in. “Twice.”

“Ahn? When was that?” Despite there being enough space, Atobe shifted over to his side. An arm came around his shoulders, and it made Mizuki’s heart flutter.

“The U-17 camp.” He twirled some hair on a finger, then leaned against the big chest. “And at your big fancy hotel. Where you awarded me 10 million yen.” 

“Right. You were there early that day.” Atobe closed his eyes, stretching out his legs again. “Annoying me.”

Mizuki smiled. “Did I almost make you change your mind? Nfu, oh dear.”

“I couldn’t, I already wrote the checks!” Atobe laughed. 

Mizuki laughed dryly, then rolled his eyes. He indulged in his desire and turned to snuggle into the strong body. Atobe pulled him closer to his chest. 

Silence filled the room, only the twinkling of their bodies in the water making a sound. Then, after pulling him even closer, Atobe pressed a kiss to the top of Mizuki’s head. Mizuki felt his whole body blush.

“How was it?”

“H-How was what?”

“Last night.”

Mizuki glared down at their feet. “Wh-what do you want me to say? It was nice.”

“Have you had sex before?”

“Wh-what’s the point in asking that!” Mizuki growled, scooting away, scrunching himself up by crossing his arms. “You had a good time, didn’t you! You made sure to have your way with me—!”

Atobe sighed in impatience, “I did. I was just curious. I don’t care.” He got up from his spot, Mizuki glaring at his ass as he climbed out of the bath. Atobe slung a towel around his neck, and smirked back at Mizuki from over his shoulder. “But it would be nice if I took your virginity.”

Mizuki squawked indignantly as Atobe made his leave, feeling like the bath might boil from how hot he felt.

Breakfast was held on one of Atobe’s many balconies, in the crisp air of a November morning. Atobe wore a plush leopard print robe as he sat for breakfast, and Mizuki was lent a purple one that was way too long, and hung off his skinny arms as he ate. He looked up, watching Atobe smile as he cut off a piece of sausage.

“So, are you working today?” Mizuki poked a tomato on to his fork, and nibbled.

“You keep asking me that.” Atobe chewed on his bite, then looked out over his grounds. “I’m not thinking about it.”

“Not thinking about work?” Mizuki watched him, then looked over the grounds as well. Beyond the trees that surrounded the acres, he saw the buildings of Tokyo peeking up from the horizon.

“Yes. Isn’t that what you wanted?” Atobe looked back at him, then smirked. “If you wanted me to sleep more, you did a good job distracting me from it, ahn?”

Mizuki blushed, pouting back into his tea. “Be quiet… We slept eight hours!” He cleared his throat to calm himself down. “I want to know where your mind is, I suppose. You are very relaxed, yes? It would be a shame if you cut it short.”

Atobe set his fork down, raising a brow. “Are you suggesting something?”

“Nfu,” Mizuki smiled back at him. “Take the day off! Take Monday afternoon off, and have a visit to Hyotei! I think they’d like your presence there.”

Atobe seemed to ponder this, putting another piece of meat into his mouth and chewing slowly. 

Mizuki continued, though he was surprised Atobe didn’t say something like ‘of course they do.’ “It’s fine you want to work so hard — I understand wanting to gain the board’s trust. But when you created the grant, you were trying to recapture that happiness Hyotei gave you. I don’t think you’ve been happy lately.” 

“I was plenty happy last night!” Atobe laughed as Mizuki’s face grimaced in disgust. 

“Be serious…! I-I cannot stay around to be your… your _sex toy_ that you… you _relieve_ yourself in!” Atobe kept laughing, making Mizuki’s face redden. “I am giving you good advice! Take it or leave it! ...But you should really take it!”

Atobe calmed himself, chuckling as he sipped on some freshly pressed juice. “I will take today off. I’ll get an assistant for my emails. I have more important work to do anyway, ahn?”

He looked to Atobe again despite the unbearable burning feeling in his face, studying him closely. He had a soft smile that held no ulterior motives or feelings. No tightness, no hard expressions, no eyebags. Just a rested, relaxed Atobe.

Mizuki’s face finally relaxed into his own smile, and he nodded, clapping his hands together. “Sounds perfect to me! Since it was my idea!”

With a roll of his eyes, Atobe got up from breakfast to enjoy a rare day off with the most annoying, attractive nag of a person that he ever met.

~~~

Mizuki steps outside the clubhouse, hisses under his breath, and goes back inside to pull on another jacket. Why was it so cold in _April?_ Rubbing his gloved hands together, he watched as his tennis team did their exercises in their long sleeved uniforms. He felt even colder seeing the puffs of air leave their mouths.

“Please stay warm!” Mizuki called out, taking a seat on a bench. 

“We are!!” Souhei yelled back before smashing a tennis ball into the chain link fence.

With a pout, Mizuki hugged his arms to himself. There were five more of them this year, a total of eleven members, and they were all dutifully prepping for their first practice match of the new school year. At least the team could stay warm with exercise. He almost wanted to join them — instead, he squeezed his jacket tighter around himself.

He heard the purr of a motor approach the grounds, then stop. Standing up, he peered from afar, and saw the name of the school emblazoned across the side of the bus. No surprise there. He walked over and opened the gate for them.

“Hyotei Academy!” He clapped his hands together in a welcoming flourish. “Welcome to St. Rudolph! Thank you for coming!”

“Happy to honor you with our presence!”

Mizuki frowned, and looked as Atobe stepped out from the bus, being met with a smug smirk. He wanted to smack him, and perhaps if they were by themselves, he would have gotten a whap on the arm. Alas, they were around impressionable teenagers, whom they followed behind to the grounds.

“Nfu, to whom do we owe the honor to have Atobe Keigo himself join us for the practice match today?” Mizuki peered up at him with a sickly sweet smile.

“Ahn?” Atobe smirked back at him. “I think you know who.”

Mizuki tittered, pointing his nose up. “I suppose I do!”

He yelped out as he felt a squeeze to his rear, snapping his head over to give the guilty party a glare. Atobe’s own head was lifted high without a care in the world. It was becoming a common sight for Mizuki these days.

“Behave yourself, Atobe _Keigo_ ,” Mizuki growled to him as they walked side by side, “or I’ll—”

“Do what you want,” Atobe purred down at him, hands in the pockets of his own athletic jacket. “I know I can change your mind.”

“Nfu, no! No you can’t!” 

“When we win, I’ll take you out for dinner.” Atobe reached out again, but only gave Mizuki a squeeze to his shoulder this time. “If you win, somehow or some way, I’ll do whatever you want.”

Mizuki turned his head, reaching out to poke him in his chest. “I’ll have to start thinking of something, then.”

They exchanged knowing smiles, then turned away, joining their teams on the court for their first practice match together.


End file.
